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aleksatia · 4 months ago

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10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

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inkskinned · 6 months ago

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it's easier to apply for jobs than ever! so what if you lost your insurance, anyone can get a job these days, even without meds. everyone is hiring! there's a "good employee" shortage!

well you just need to revamp your resume, here's a paid app subscription that can read it for you. rewrite the cover letter they won't read. google jobs in my area and then scrawl through Monster/Indeed/worbly. did you want to save the search? this was posted 98 days ago. over 1 billion applicants! this position is trending.

jobs i actively like doing and get paid for. your search returned no results. easy-apply with HireSpin! easy apply with SparkFire! easy apply with PenisFlash! with a few short clicks, get your information stolen.

watch out! the first 98 links on google are actually scams! they're false postings. oopsie. that business isn't even hiring. that other one is closed permanently. find one that looks halfway legit, google the company and the word "careers". go to their page. scroll past brightly-lit diversity stock photo JOIN US white sans serif. we are a unique, fresh, client-focused stock value capitalism. we are committed to excellence and selling your soul on ebay. we are DRIVEN with POWER to INNOVATE our greed. yippee! our company has big values of divisive decision making, sucking our dicks, and hating work-life balances. our values are to piss in your mouth. sign here and tell us if you have gender issues so we can get ahead of the sexual harassment claim. are you hispanic although let's be real we threw out the resume when we saw your last name.

sign up to LinkHub to access updates from this company. make a HirePlus account to apply. download the PoundLink app. your account has been created, click the link we sent you in 15 minutes. upload that resume. we didn't read the resume, manually fill in the lines now. what is your expected pay grade. oh actually we want hungry people, not people driven by a salary. cut a zero off that number, buddy, this is about opportunity, and we need to be thrifty. highest level of education. autofill is glitching. here is an AI generated set of questions. what is your favorite part of our sexy, sexy company. how do you resolve conflict. will you get our company logo tattooed on your person. warning: while our CEO is guilty of wage theft, we will absolutely refuse to hire a nonviolent felon.

thank you for your interest at WEEBLIX. we actually already filled this position internally. we actually never had that posting. we actually needed you to have 9 years of experience and since you have 10 years we think it might be too many? we'll be texting you. we'll email you. we'll keep your resume. definitely absolutely we won't just completely ignore you. look at your phone, there's already a spam text from Bethany@stealyouridentity. they're hiring!

wait, did you get an interview? well that's special, aren't you lucky. out of 910 jobs you applied to, one answered, finally. and funny story! actually the position isn't exactly as advertised, we are looking for someone curious and dedicated. it's sort of more managerial. no, the pay doesn't change - you won't have any leadership title. now take this 90 minute assessment. in order to be a dog groomer, we need you to explain cell biology. in order to be a copyeditor, write a tiny dissertation about the dwindling supply of helium on the planet. answer our riddles three. great job! we just need to push this up to Tracy in HR who will send it to Rodney who is actually in charge. and then of course it's jay's decision and then greg will need to see you naked and if you survive you'll be given a drug test and a full anal examination.

and of course you'll be hungry this whole time, aren't you, months and months of the same shit. months of no insurance, no meds, no funding, barely able to afford the internet and the phone and the rent - all things you need in order to even apply for our thing. but do it again! do it again and again and again, until you flip inside out and turn into a being of pure dread!

you're not hired yet because you're lazy. there's over one million AI-generated hallucinated jobs in your area. don't worry. with zipruiter, hiring and firing is easier than ever. sign up. stay on-call.

in the meantime, little peon - why don't you just fucking suffer.

#spilled ink #well you'll never guess how i feel about this #ps im hispanic. nonbinary. disabled. girl i cannot pick a fucking struggle.

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heesmiles · 9 days ago

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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

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #heeseung imagines #heeseung smut #lee heeseung imagines #lee heesung smut #lee heeseung #enhypen #heeseung #heeseung x reader #heeseung enhypen #heeseung x yn #k pop x reader #k pop smut #kpop smut #kpop imagines

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braiindeath · 1 year ago

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beware, those who partake in vaulderie,

bonding blood, or acts of diablerie!

a kiss too deep from the moon’s cainite,

and gain not only her dementation.

for Malkav’s grip on the mind’s a blight,

you shall inherit her aberrations.

beware, those who partake in vaulderie!

#t #might rewrite this using common terminology cause i like this concept a lot #if you don’t play vtm this probably makes no sense #poetry #mine #twcpoetry #the writers corner #alt lit #zargulla #writtenconsiderations #smittenbypoetry #writerscreed

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lassiie · 2 months ago

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HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG (fic out now!!)

pair hacker!stepbro heeseung x reader

MDNI ! NSFW ! Truly Obsessive, psychosexual, dark vibes step bro Heeseung who stalk you. "You’re not scared of me, baby. You’re addicted... Just like me."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your location 24/7 and pretends not to care when you lie about where you’ve been.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sees you wearing something new and smiles to himself—because he saw you trying it on in your room last week, through your camera.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who keeps a file of every photo you’ve ever deleted—every nude, every moment you thought no one would see. But Hee did.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you get ready for dates and sends you anonymous texts like, “don’t waste lipstick on someone who won’t make you cry.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you dared to hack you—just to tease him, flashing that crazy angle, undressing slow—until he hijacks your screen, darkens your room, and whispers through you mic: "Keep peeling. I want to see every inch before I decide how hard i'll fuck you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you fuck someone else live through their hacked laptops camera, and sends you messages mid-thrust: “He’s not even close to make you cum. I’d ruin you.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you bickered with—so he fucked another girl raw in his dorm with your moans in his AirPods, eyes closed the whole time like she was just a body for you to echo through.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who sends your hookup a virus mid-text so their phone dies before they can confirm plans.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who slowly rewrites your kinks via search suggestions. One day it’s “soft dom...” the next it’s “stepbro makes her beg.” You think it’s your idea. He knows it’s his.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who swapped out your vibrator for a hacked one he controls—so now your orgasms don’t belong to you, they belong to him.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who programmed your vibrator to sync with your webcam activity—so the moment he can enjoy with you.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who has an encrypted file labeled “every time she came” — full of timestamps from every night you touched yourself.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who tracks your cycle and only texts you during ovulation with messages like: “Would you let me breed you if I asked nicely? Or do I need to ruin you for anyone else first?."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t need to. Not when you keep your curtains cracked, and your thighs parted, and your breathing shallow at 1:22 a.m.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets you date other guys—but only so he can hack them, stalk them, and wait until they slip up. Then he sends you the evidence like a love letter. “See? I protect what’s mine.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who watches you masturbate and types “slower” into your open Notes app. And almost cum when you actually listen.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who learned the way your breathing changes before you come and trained his own body to sync to it—until you finish together, apart, every single time.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who knows you touched yourself wearing his hoodie and rewatches the footage every night—hand wrapped tight on his dick, whispering “you filthy little sister.”

hacker!stepbro heeseung who buys you lingerie and mails it anonymously to the house—no card, just your size, your taste… and the scent of his cologne already soaked in.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who fucks girls mean when he’s mad at you—gripping too tight, biting too hard, fucking too deep.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who lets a girl ride him—face blank, screen lit—while your live shower feed plays like his personal porno.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to escape—so he pinned you to the bed, forcing you to watch your crush hacked laptop when he's gaming, as he fucked you hard, growling, "Let him hear how good you sound when you’re mine."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you called a creep—yet now you sit with legs parted in front of your screen, waiting, aching, praying the webcam light will flicker.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you told to stop—yet you started dressing for him. Walking slower in front of his door. Leaving your webcam uncovered. Secretly hoping he couldn’t stop.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who corrupted you so gently, so thoroughly, that now when he types "Be good. Leave the door unlocked tonight," you obey. Without question. Without panties.

hacker!stepbro heeseung who you tried to forget—but he replaced your lock screen with a photo of you on your knees, mouth open, eyes glazed—and captioned it: "My good little stepwhore."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who forced you to admit it—fingers buried inside you, voice low and dangerous: "Say it. Say you want to be my dirty little stepsister. Say you like it when I ruin you."

hacker!stepbro heeseung who finally snapped—after weeks of playing nice—dragged you to his room, stripped you down in front of your own hacked camera, and fucked you, whispering, "You belong to me. I’ve owned you since the first time you came here."

Will be out on sunday 15.06 I just know you’re gonna love it... almost as much as you’ll be slightly terrified by it. Because, well, the topic is a teensy bit... let’s say... intrusive.

Reblog, comment, scream into the void—give this post the attention it craves! Be bold. Be nosy. I dare you. 😘

yours dearly, Lassiie

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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The Brush Off

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times people flirt with Felicity and 1 time Oscar sees it happen.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 Also, check out my new divider!

School Library, Haileybury

Felicity was tucked into her usual corner of the school library — second floor, far left, just behind the dusty shelf of outdated atlases no one ever touched. It was quiet there. Untouchable. Sacred.

Her legs were curled under her in a frankly illegal way that made the librarian twitch every time she passed by.

But Felicity didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about. Like finishing her own chemistry coursework, writing the conclusion to her robotics team report, and, most importantly, rescuing Oscar’s history grade from what could only be described as a stylistic disaster.

Her copy of The Selfish Gene sat open next to a packet of sticky notes and five highlighters arranged in rainbow order. Oscar’s essay draft was sprawled beside it like a corpse in need of resuscitation.

She was six pages in.

She had already marked five run-on sentences, circled three historical inaccuracies, and scrawled “comma splice?” in angry red ink on the header. Next to that, she’d added, in smaller print: “This is a run-on sentence and also a war crime.”(This was three lines after “I am not sure if child labour can be considered a “perk” of the industrial revolution, Oz.”)

She was muttering to herself about how Oscar consistently forgot the difference between a primary and secondary source when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You always sit here?”

Felicity glanced up — just barely — and immediately clocked the newcomer.

Mateo.

The Spanish exchange student.

Hair swoop. Too much cologne.

He had the vibe of someone who thought reading The Secret History made him profound. Like the kind of guy who bought Moleskines but didn’t write in them. Like a walking Instagram profile captioned “Fluent in Nietzsche.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just scribbled a note in Oscar’s margin (“use a stronger thesis here or face the wrath of every historian who’s ever lived”).

“On Wednesdays, yes,” she replied eventually, eyes still on the page.

Mateo didn’t take the hint.

He leaned in a little too close. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and already regretted not bringing headphones.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted Oscar’s paper slightly, as if it were obvious. “This.”

He squinted. “You’re helping a friend?”

“This is my boyfriend’s essay.”

Mateo’s face lit up, but not with recognition — with opportunity. “Wow. You’re that good a friend?”

Felicity blinked. “I’m that good a girlfriend.”

He paused. Smiled like she’d just told a cute joke at a party. “Sure. But, like, if you ever wanted to… hang out? Or study together? I’ve been struggling with philosophy.”

She stared at him. “You’re struggling with philosophy?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s so dense, you know?”

“You mean… reading?”

He chuckled. “I just thought it might be easier with someone like you. Someone sharp. Smart.”

She just stared at him.

Still, he didn’t leave. “I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of helping your boyfriend… I wouldn’t mind a little attention.”

That’s what made her pause.

Because for a moment, Felicity genuinely didn’t understand what he meant.

Attention? What kind? Did he want her to edit his essay, too? Help him structure his arguments?

Was this a mentorship request? A tutoring thing? Was he trying to hire her?

Because from where she was sitting — wearing one of Oscar’s sweatshirts over her school uniform with her hair up in a pencil-stabbed bun, ink smudged on her fingers… There was no way this boy was flirting with her.

She finally looked up, expression flat. “I’ve been with my boyfriend for two years. I rewrite his footnotes. I know the number of his racing sim’s USB ports by memory. You think I have time for recreational idiocy?”

Mateo blinked. He stammered something that might’ve been “Sorry” or “Your loss” or possibly just the start of a philosophy quote he didn’t finish.

Then he turned and slunk away, disappearing into the nonfiction aisle like a man who needed to Google what a footnote was.

Felicity exhaled slowly, turned back to Oscar’s essay, and drew a tiny skull next to a sentence about Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Oscar appeared — bottle of water in one hand, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, curls slightly mussed.

“Hey,” he said, flopping into the seat beside her and nudging her ankle under the table.

Felicity didn’t even blink. She just slid his paper across the table.

“Yours,” she said, tone dry. “Try not to get seduced by misused commas.”

Oscar grinned, leaned over, and kissed her temple.

***

Engineering Library, Imperial College London

The engineering library at Imperial had a very specific kind of silence — dense, utilitarian, and just slightly stressed.

It didn’t have the hushed reverence of a humanities space or the open nervous energy of undergrads cramming in a group. No. This room buzzed with tension.

It smelled like soldering fumes, pencil shavings, leftover caffeine, and the faintest echo of ambition-turned-despair.

Most students had packed up hours ago, but Felicity remained in her fortress of design textbooks, open CAD diagrams, three kinds of scrap paper, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper that she’d been meaning to throw away for at least forty-five minutes. Her water bottle was dangerously low, her laptop fan sounded like it was preparing for lift-off, and her cursor had been blinking in the same spot on her thermal stress simulation for the last twenty-seven minutes.

She wasn’t stuck. She was just… tired.

Tired in the bone-deep way only a mechanical engineering student in her second trimester could be.

She shifted slightly, legs curled beneath her, one hand resting absently on the curve of her bump. Not because it hurt — not tonight — but because Beatrice had just kicked her in the ribs again, like she was trying to crawl out through Felicity’s diaphragm.

Her phone buzzed next to her laptop:

Oscar: Don’t forget dinner. Please. You always forget when your sim models hate you.

She smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Not yet. She still had heat sink values to triple-check.

That was when it happened.

A voice—too close, too casual—sliced through the stillness.

“Hey.”

Felicity looked up, blinking.

A guy was standing across the table. Probably mid-twenties. Tall, in that I stretch for photos, way. Crisp haircut. Slim jeans. Water bottle with a “No Bad Vibes” sticker on it — ironic, because he was currently radiating intrusive energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid into the chair opposite hers like this was a first date she didn’t know they were having.

“I saw you in Thermo this morning,” he said. “That fluid mechanics question you asked? Insanely clever. I was going to say something after class, but you ducked out too fast.”

Felicity blinked at him. “I had a tutorial.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Should’ve guessed. You seem like you’ve got everything scheduled down to the second.”

“I also needed chips,” she added, because both things were true.

He laughed like she’d made a joke. “You seem intense. I like that. Women in engineering? You don’t see that every day. Rare combination of intimidating and hot.”

She stared at him.

The words rolled around her brain like loose screws.

What… did he want?

Was this a compliment? An insult? An offer?

She was six months pregnant, her knees hurt, her thesis was trying to kill her, and she was wearing Oscar’s hoodie with a faint grease stain across the front.

What exactly was the goal here?

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he rushed on, clearly sensing the silence and trying to recover. “You’ve just got that… serious vibe. Like the kind of girl who rewires her own dishwasher.”

“I did,” she said flatly. “Last week.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the kettle. And Oscar’s sim pedal when it failed under full brake.”

There was a beat.

“…Who’s Oscar?” he asked, smirking now. “Your roommate?”

Felicity paused.

And for a moment—just a moment—she considered laughing.

Then she closed her laptop slowly. Deliberately.

“Oscar’s my husband.”

The guy blinked.

Stood up slowly. Her hoodie shifted, and with it, the full curve of her pregnancy became unmistakably obvious. Not theoretical. Not ambiguous. Imminent.

The guy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, not breaking eye contact, slung her bag over one shoulder, and smiled — cold, clean, efficient.

“If you’re gonna flirt with a mechanical engineer,” she said, “maybe do a better job at observational diagnostics.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he wanted to apologise and also vanish into the carpet tiles.

Felicity didn’t wait for a response.

***

Trinity College, Oxford

By the time Felicity Piastri was twenty-one, she had two things down to a science:

How to balance a toddler on her hip while rewriting entire sections of a doctoral thesis.

The exact number of times she could ignore the same man before it became a full-blown academic experiment.

Her Oxford doctoral project - Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite-Structured Performance Environments. - had technically been finished for weeks. The simulations were done, the modelling locked in, her conclusions tight and triple-sourced. Now she was just revising. Editing. Wrangling footnotes into submission while Bee tried to paste glitter stickers into the margins of her printed draft.

She did almost everything from home.

The only reason she even stepped foot into Oxford was for fortnightly supervision meetings with Dr. Green, who was brilliant, terrifying, and the only person Felicity would willingly leave the house (and her toddler) for.

Which was, unfortunately, where Nathan lived.

Nathan — Dr. Green’s personal assistant — had been a PPE student once upon a time, which explained a lot. Somehow, he’d wheedled his way into a departmental admin role despite not knowing the difference between a torque curve and a coffee stain. His talents included:

Misfiling room bookings.

Brewing tea that tasted like despair.

Flirting with Felicity like it was something he was being graded on.

The first time he tried it, she’d thought it was just bad small talk. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed the type to flirt accidentally, the kind of man who said “babe” to baristas and thought it made him charming.

The second time, she was slightly annoyed.

By the fifth, she had moved on to anthropological interest.

How did he not see the wedding ring? The child’s drawings poking out of her folder? The exhaustion of someone whose idea of a wild Friday night was installing firmware updates for fun?

Today, she arrived two minutes early for her meeting. She’d barely stepped into the department lobby when he spotted her.

“Dr. Green is running a bit late,” Nathan announced, standing up from behind the reception desk like he was emerging for a curtain call. “But I can keep you company if you like.”

Felicity barely paused. “She’s not. She still has 2 minutes till our appointment time.”

He grinned like she’d just flirted back. “You know, I was thinking the other day… you never hang around after your meetings. You always rush off.”

“Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “Because I have a toddler. And a dissertation. And a husband. In that order.”

Nathan winced theatrically. “Oof. Brutal.”

She offered him a smile that wasn’t one. “Sorry. Was that too reality-based?”

Still, he pressed on, leaning against the desk like he thought he was on the cover of GQ.

“Still,” he said, “it’d be nice to talk about something other than drivetrain mapping sometime. Maybe grab a drink?”

Felicity blinked. Twice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it. But somehow, today, it caught her even more off guard.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “a married mother of one, who is actively finishing a thesis and hasn’t eaten a full sit-down meal in two days, to go get drinks with you?”

He laughed, like she was being ridiculous.

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. We could just talk—”

“About what?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “What, precisely, do you think I have in common with a man who once told me Elon Musk was just misunderstood?”

Nathan blinked.

Felicity continued. “Do you want help with your CV? Is this about office gossip? Are you confused and trying to network with me through reverse psychology?”

“I just meant—”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I genuinely don’t understand what outcome you’re envisioning here. Do you think I’m going to cheat on my husband with the guy who can’t pronounce ‘aerodynamics’ without swallowing the word halfway through?”

He flushed slightly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not. I’m being efficient.”

The door to the inner office opened before he could reply. Dr. Green appeared, breathless and balancing two takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder in the other.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry. The grant committee meeting ran over. Here—” She handed over one of the cups. “Decaf oat, right? And I pulled the new journal submissions for you. There are a few I thought might intersect with your secondary chapter on hybrid systems.”

Felicity smiled as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I already reviewed the three most relevant ones and emailed you a summary chart with citations.”

Dr. Green blinked. “Of course you did.”

Nathan blinked, too, but for entirely different reasons.

Felicity turned back to him just before following her professor inside.

“Oh, and Nathan?”

“…Yes?” he said, still — somehow — hopeful.

She raised her left hand and tapped the wedding band with one finger. “This wasn’t a joke.”

And then she shut the office door behind her like it was a verdict.

The Door Handle Aisle of Homebase, Woking

Oscar was off racing.

Felicity was elbow-deep in a bathroom renovation.

Not the Pinterest kind.

Not the “new towels and scented eucalyptus and a little bamboo ladder for the aesthetic” kind.

No, this was the “rip out the vanity with a crowbar and discover the wall behind it had been sealed with hope and duct tape” kind.

The kind of renovation that required full battle gear: dust mask, gloves, safety goggles, and the controlled fury of a woman who had read the plumbing manual twice and did not need a man explaining pipe fittings to her.

And because she was who she was — stubborn, competent, and wildly intelligent— Felicity hadn’t hired anyone.

She could do it herself.

And she would.

Which meant… many, many trips to the hardware store.

The staff had started to recognise her by mid-April. A couple of them even learned to duck when she walked in, in case she asked for a specific size of tap washer they didn’t carry. But one guy — the guy from the sealant aisle—hadn’t learned that lesson.

Late twenties, overly friendly, perpetually wearing a toolbelt he definitely didn’t need, like he thought it made him look rugged instead of unconvincing. He hovered near the caulk and grout displays like they were a dating pool.

The first time, it was casual.

“You here again?” he’d asked, smiling like he was in a rom-com. “You must really like DIY.”

Felicity didn’t look up from the tile grout chart. “I like doing things properly.”

The second time, it was more confident.

“Doing a kitchen too?” he asked, spotting the tile adhesive in her basket. “You ever need help—”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, already walking toward checkout before he could finish.

By the sixth visit, he had apparently decided they were bonding.

She was in the handles aisle, comparing brass finishes, when she heard him again — that telltale sneaker-squeak on linoleum, the voice turned up a little too loud, too performative.

“Wow,” he said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep coming in just to see me.”

Felicity didn’t look up. She held one cabinet pull in each hand and considered which one better matched the art deco lines of the mirror she’d thrifted.

“I assure you,” she said, tone even, “my interest in you begins and ends with your stock of brass hinges.”

He laughed, undeterred. “Come on. You’re always here. I figured, maybe you’re one of those cool builder girls. You don’t wear a ring or anything, so…”

That’s what finally made her pause.

Not the tone. Not the implication. But the logic.

She looked at him.

“You think I keep coming in here because… what? I’m lonely?” she asked, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “I’m literally holding blueprints and a door handle.”

He shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of girl who could use a little—” (God help him) “—company.”

Felicity blinked. She wiped a smudge of pencil from her chin, set the handles back down, and reached into her tote bag without breaking eye contact.

She pulled out her phone.

“I’m going to walk you through something,” she said calmly, unlocking the screen. “Because clearly, you didn’t do any preliminary research before launching this… ill-conceived outreach attempt.”

She turned the lock screen toward him.

A photo.

Felicity, curled up on a sofa in a hoodie. Oscar was beside her, kissing the top of her head. Bee sprawled between them in footie pyjamas, holding a spoon upside down like a trophy. The lighting was soft. Domestic. Unmistakably intimate.

“This,” Felicity said, “is my husband. He is currently in Azerbaijan, driving a car at three hundred miles an hour. That’s our daughter. She is two. I do renovations during naptime.”

The man paled. “Oh. I—uh. I didn’t know—”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t ask.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else — possibly to dig the hole deeper.

But Felicity wasn’t done.

“I come in here to buy tile primer. I don’t come in here for unsolicited analysis of my marital status from men who think a toolbelt is a personality trait.”

Her voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

It was calm. Steady.

The voice of someone who had personally rewired her fuse box and once installed a dishwasher while on the phone and dealing with a crying toddler.

She smiled politely. Dangerously.

Like a woman who kept zip ties in her car and knew how to use them.

“I’ll take these, thanks,” she said, lifting the cabinet handles. “Don’t need help carrying them. But if you’ve got any more of that tile primer from last week in stock, that would be helpful.”

He mumbled something about checking the back and fled like a man pursued by the consequences of his own choices.

Felicity watched him go, then picked up the nicer brass finish.

She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too tired.

Felicity just wanted her tile primer and to go home.

***

Rooftop Bar, Melbourne

Felicity didn’t go out much.

Not because she couldn’t — Oscar insisted she take breaks, even booked her massages that she always forgot to attend — but because she liked her life.

She liked being home with Bee. She liked sanding doorframes and painting walls and mapping out the next renovation with a pencil stuck in her messy bun. She liked curling up on the sofa with her laptop, trading stock options at 1 AM. She liked Oscar reading over her shoulder, pointing out line graphs he didn’t understand but wanted to. She liked the steady rhythm of their days. Naptimes and quiet dinners and Bee’s loud commentary on the existence of pigeons.

But they were in Melbourne over the Winter break, and Nicole had insisted.

“You’re getting out of the house,” she’d said, practically pushing Felicity toward the wardrobe. “You’ve been in Australia for five days, and the only places you’ve seen are the beach and Bunnings.”

And so here they were — rooftop bar in Melbourne, warm summer air, glass of chilled white wine in Nicole’s hand and a lemon-lime mocktail in Felicity’s.

Their dresses fluttered in the breeze; Her hair was up. Her arms were bare. She looked, Nicole thought proudly, like the kind of woman men write songs about.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

Because a man at the bar had noticed, too.

He made his way over with the swagger of someone who once played rugby in uni and still referred to it as “his prime.” White linen shirt. Too many rings. Hair with more product than structure. And that thing men did when they leaned on a table like they were presenting a TED Talk on their charm.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said smoothly, eyes only on Felicity.

Nicole didn’t blink. “You are.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows, mildly surprised, but didn’t say anything. She just sipped her drink and let the lime catch on her tongue.

The man chuckled — the low, confident kind that assumed he was being flirted back with.

“I just thought I’d say—you’ve got a great smile,” he continued. Still to Felicity. Still convinced. “You local?”

“No,” she said. “Just visiting.”

He nodded toward Nicole. “With your sister?”

Nicole’s mouth twitched.

Felicity opened her mouth to clarify, but Nicole got there first.

“I’m her mother-in-law,” she said, swirling her wine.

That gave him a moment’s pause. But not enough.

“Well, she’s clearly not married—” he gestured vaguely to Felicity’s left hand, bare in the way most hands are after a morning at the beach with a toddler and too much sunscreen.

Felicity smiled. Slowly. Like a summer storm deciding whether to ruin your picnic or level your whole house.

“I took my rings off before swimming this morning,” she said, amused. “Didn’t want to lose them in the ocean.”

He still didn’t give up. “No offence, but… a girl like you? You don’t need to be tied down so young.”

Felicity furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you could have fun. Live a little.”

“I’m married,” she said again, a little slower. “I live a lot.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, grinning.

She genuinely didn’t understand.

What did he mean by that?

Was she supposed to say thank you? Defend her marriage?

Debate the merits of early commitment like she was on a panel?

“No,” Felicity replied honestly, “I actually don’t. What exactly do you think is going to happen? I abandon my family because you complimented my teeth?”

She had a three-year-old who could build better arguments about bedtime.

Before Felicity could figure out what to say, Nicole gently set her wine glass down.

“She’s not tied down, darling,” she said, tone perfectly pleasant. “She’s adored.”

She reached into her purse like she was pulling a weapon.

“Would you like to see a photo of her husband holding their daughter on the beach this morning?” she asked. “Or maybe the one where he flew eight hours just to make it to her thesis defence?”

The man’s face did a visible three-second software update.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, already backing up a step.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “You sure? My son is very photogenic. His job likes to post him shirtless sometimes. It’s a whole thing.”

Felicity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Right. Uh—have a nice night,” the man muttered, vanishing like a bug under bright light.

+1 — The One Time Oscar Noticed

The garage was buzzing with that high-voltage energy unique to a U.S. race weekend — louder music, brighter cameras, fans pressed against every fence line like they were at a concert instead of a motorsport event. McLaren’s VIP list was stacked with influencers, sponsors, and the usual parade of celebrities trying to look like they knew what a downforce map was.

Oscar didn’t care about any of them.

He cared about the girls in the denim jackets with PIASTRI stitched across the back in big, white glittery letters. Their arts and crafts project for Silverstone.

Felicity was standing near the back of the garage, Bee balanced on her hip, and a pair of toddler-sized headphones slipped over her curls. The two of them had matching jackets, homemade and loud and perfect. Bee’s even had a sparkly iron-on chicken. Felicity’s had glitter stars. Oscar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He was mid-chat with one of the engineers when he glanced over again.

And froze.

Because some guy—tall, tanned, fake-smiling, and clearly trying to look famous—was leaning way too close to Felicity. His teeth were too white. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a drink, and worse, he had sunglasses on inside. Oscar didn’t even know where he’d come from — but there he was, leaning against the garage railing like it was a club bar and Felicity was the drink special.

He was saying something. Laughing too loud.

Felicity frowned politely. She shifted a sleeping Bee on her hip and took a half-step back.

The man followed.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, gesturing to her jacket, “if you’re gonna wear another man’s name on your back, he better be worth it.”

Felicity blinked. “He’s my husband.”

That didn’t deter him.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how good he’s got it,” the man said, still smiling, his gaze dropping briefly to her legs. “You ever get tired of being someone’s plus-one, let me know.”

Bee stirred a little, nose twitching, and Felicity rubbed her back automatically, like muscle memory. Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

The guy tilted his head. “C’mon. You’re clearly the type who plays the sweet wife in public. But a woman like you?” He dropped his voice. “You need real attention.”

Oscar took a step forward, but someone else moved faster.

“Alright,” said a voice, sharp and Australian and impossible to ignore. “Let’s try that again — from six feet away.”

The man turned, surprised, and saw Mark Webber.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to freeze a room.

He gave the man a smile that could cut glass. “You’ve got five seconds to back up before I make this very awkward for everyone.”

“Sorry, mate—”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” Mark said, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not her mate. You’re a stranger talking to a woman who’s clearly married, clearly holding a child, and clearly not interested. So unless you’re trying to get blacklisted from every paddock hospitality list from now until eternity, I’d walk away.”

The guy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned and slinked off like a coward in designer shoes.

Oscar finally got to them, face tight, fury in every step.

Mark nodded. “Handled.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mark looked at Felicity. “You alright?”

Felicity still looked baffled. “What was that?”

Oscar looked her over, checking Bee, checking her, like reassurance was the only way to keep his hands from shaking. “That guy was harassing you.”

“What? No. Was he?” She squinted after him. “He was just being weird.”

Oscar stared at her. “He was flirting. Badly.”

“He was being rude,” Felicity said. “And creepy. But flirting? Why would anyone flirt with someone holding a sleeping toddler and wearing a juice-stained T-shirt? Why does this keep happening?!”

Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re wearing a custom denim jacket with your husband’s name on it in glitter. Holding your kid. And you still have men sniffing around. That’s not on you — that’s on them being idiots.”

Oscar exhaled hard.

Felicity, still gently rocking Bee, just sighed. “Maybe I should just get a flashing neon sign.”

Oscar stepped closer and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

She looked at him, tired but unbothered. “Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be once I get you both inside.”

***

They were tucked away in the quiet corner of the drivers' room now, post-session, Bee still fast asleep on the little sofa wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies. The chaos of the paddock had faded into muffled noise.

Oscar was sitting across from Felicity, one leg bouncing.

He was still rattled.

“What do you mean they keep flirting with you?” he asked, brows drawn together as he looked at her.

Felicity blinked up at him. “What?”

“You said it like it happens regularly,” he said, voice low and sharp with something he was trying to keep cool. “Like that wasn’t the first time.”

She paused. Shrugged. “I mean… it does? A little?”

Oscar stared at her. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since Haileybury, probably? Or Oxford. And, like… in the hardware store.”

Oscar made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said simply, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “They’re not you. So they don’t have a chance.”

He stilled.

That one sentence — calm, sure, like it was the most obvious fact in the world — hit him in the chest like a perfect downshift.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew people looked,” he admitted.

Of course, they looked. He was aware of how Felicity looked: Sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Hair windswept from the open pit lane. She had juice on her shirt, no makeup, and still — still — she looked like something out of a dream. Breakable and brilliant. All porcelain and fire.

Beautiful.

“I’m not blind. But I didn’t realise they were… like that.”

“I don’t even get why they are doing it,” Felicity snorted. “I look like someone who hasn’t slept properly since Bee was born. I have crusted juice on my shirt. I literally threw Goldfish crackers at our daughter to buy myself ten minutes.”

Oscar leaned back, exasperated. “And you still look better than anyone else here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just biased.”

“I’m jealous,” he corrected, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I hate it. That guy didn’t even flinch when you said you were married.”

“He probably thought I was joking,” she said mildly. “People don’t really expect twenty-somethings to be married with kids.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “They should. You wear my name on your back.”

She shrugged. “They don’t matter. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Oscar was across the space in a second.

He kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate — hand sliding around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he had to remind himself she was real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shallow.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t own you, but God, I feel it sometimes. Like you’ve always been mine.”

“I have. Since we were 15,” she whispered. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even before you had a Wikipedia page.”

Oscar kissed her. Not rushed, not messy — but firm. Grounded. A kiss that said mine. A kiss that would’ve been indecent if she weren’t already wearing his name and carrying his child and his whole damn heart.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

And across the room, Bee stirred, let out a sleepy sigh, and snuggled deeper into Oscar’s hoodie.

Felicity leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous when you’re jealous.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed. “Yes.”

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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dakusan · 1 month ago

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MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #jeongin #yang jeongin #jeongin x reader #jeongin smut

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skywarpie · 2 years ago

Note

bro, dad copia would give you a forehead smooch and then he’d pull up to your Uni on his tricycle and throw hands w/the prof. and by throw hands I mean he’d unleash his rats upon them 💀

RAT ATTACK

I'm just very stressed about this thesis and she's already made me cry once. I just want to pass it but i feel like shes gonna make that impossible since i have 25-35 pages due by next Thursday 🙃

#she had us wtite it in sections and was like just put it together!!#but i cant do that so I'm going to have to literally rewrite it all in like 9 days while ALSO writing a paper for another class #a lit review for another class #and everything else

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cinnahoons · 2 months ago

Text

STICK AROUND !

( 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐅 ) . ;; your superhero boyfriend stops in for a late-night visit. what could possibly go wrong?

리키 (743) fluff, spiderman!riki, shameless boy antics (i need him), no warnings notes the idea of spider riki has haunted me for TOO long i folded

“psst.” you freeze mid-page, eyes darting around your dimly lit room. it’s almost midnight—you’re sure of it—because you’ve been rewriting the same sentence for the past thirty minutes in a sleep deprived haze. “psst. baby.”

you glance towards your window. the curtains flutter, disturbed by the night breeze. and there, crouched casually against the glass like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is spiderman. or, more specifically, your spiderman.

“riki, oh my god,” you whisper-yell, scrambling up. “what are you doing?”

he taps the window with a gloved finger. “letting my girl know i’m alive and well,” he says, mask half-rolled up to reveal a grin that makes your stomach somersault. “city’s quiet. figured i’d drop in.”

“you nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hiss, unlatching the window so he can swing inside. riki lands soundlessly, graceful despite the suit, and immediately snakes his arms around your waist.

“i missed you.” his breath is warm against your temple. “also, i may or may not have gotten mildly electrocuted earlier. needed a kiss for recovery purposes.”

you swat his chest. “that’s not how first aid works.”

“it does if you’re me.” he leans in closer, the remaining edge of his mask brushing your cheek. “doctor’s orders.”

you glance nervously at your door. “riki, my dad’s home. seriously. if he finds you in here—”

“then i guess i’ll have to marry you to make it respectable,” riki teases, soft lips ghosting over yours.

“not funny,” you mumble, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling him in. the kiss is soft and unhurried, like you both have all the time in the world. the two of you work in a gentle push and pull, your thumb skimming over the mole on his chin, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. his hands stay gentle at your waist, even as the kiss deepens and your knees go a little weak.

riki pulls back first, eyes sparkling. “see? feeling better already.”

“you’re impossible.”

“you love me.”

it’s hard to stop yourself from doing something embarrassing, like jumping into his arms to make him stay. that’s just not an option tonight, not with your dad home. so you push him back toward the window instead. “uh huh. time to go.”

before he can respond, there’s a loud creak from the hallway. both your heads snap toward the door.

riki swears under his breath, tugging his mask down. “okaybye!” he whispers, shooting a web to the ceiling and attempting to swing quickly out the window. only, you close it behind him too early. there’s a strange snapping sound, but you’re too preoccupied with drawing the curtains and whirling around to face the sleep-addled form of your dad in the doorway to contemplate the source of the noise.

“everything all right?” he yawns, rubbing at his eyes. you smile sheepishly, eyeing the bunny slippers peeking out from under his pajama pants.

“yes. yeah. don’t worry. i was just on call, you can go back to bed.”

it doesn’t take much to convince him at this time of night, and so as soon as he’s shut your door you turn back to the window. drawing the curtains aside, you can still make out riki’s smiling face. you slide the window open an inch. “riki. go. we almost got caught.”

riki just grins wider. “what if i said i’m stuck?”

you blink. “…what.”

“the web snapped when you shut the window,” he says, sheepish. “i’m actually—uh—hanging here by pure willpower.”

“are you serious.”

“super serious. life or death serious.”

you groan, eyes flitting around your room once more before you slide the window fully open. he grabs onto a curtain, and cold air floods in. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i prefer heroic.”

“i prefer idiot.”

you grab his face and pull him in for a quick, exasperated kiss anyway. y’know. since there’s time for it. he hums happily into it.

but the moment breaks when the rod of your curtain gives a loud, suspicious creak.

riki’s eyes widen. “uh-oh.”

“don’t you uh-oh me—”

SNAP.

he drops like a rock onto your floor, knocking over a pile of your cameras. the room fills with the sound of plastic clattering everywhere.

without missing a beat, riki throws a blanket over himself and whispers, “i’m a pile of laundry. act natural.”

you stare down at him, unimpressed.

he peeks up, one eye shut and a boyish smile dancing on his lips. “still worth it for the kiss.”

tags! @junityy @tyunni

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hischiershoe · 4 months ago

Text

─── DOUBLE OR NOTHING

─── QUINN HUGHES X FEM!READER

[ summary ] Falling for a hockey player was risky, but falling for a hockey player your dad coached was an entirely different gamble.

[ word count ] 7.4k

[ content warnings ] brief jealous quinn, drinking is mentioned, some gambling references which author (me) knows moot about it, angst if you really really squint, make out session that alludes to smut but it fades out before it gets too steamy, heavily unedited

[ note ] after rewriting this with three different players over the last eight months, Quinn was the one that truly motivated me to get it done. please note that the events of the gala are probably not factually correct but it’s for the plot okay

The first time you met Quinn, you knew who he was. Of course you did. He was a guy with a pretty impressive reputation for being his team's saving grace more often than not but most importantly, he was a player on the team your father just so happened to be the head coach for. So of course you knew who Quinn Hughes was the second you saw him in a lowly lit bar with a few of his teammates, and he knew who you were from the moment he saw you walk through the door.

Quinn had seen your pictures all around his coach’s office, some from when you were young and some that were more recent. He had heard stories of your accomplishments and childhood in the midst of team dinner or practice rambles, and he had listened to your dad go on about how proud he was of you. It was a secret to none on the team that you were attractive, but the guys were smart enough to know you were off limits, but now that you were only a few feet away from him, Quinn knew that was going to be easier said than done.

At first, he pretended not to notice the way your eyes lingered on him longer than they should, and you pretended like you couldn’t feel his stare when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The two of you played the game of cat and mouse, neither of you quite ready to take the bait and completely follow through with what was being dangled in front of you. Though, when the group you were with combined with his own, you grew hopeful that that was going to change.

When one of the guys you quickly recognized as Brock introduced himself, he also went around and introduced the rest of the guys. You forced yourself to focus on them rather than the defenseman that was standing directly across from you, his eyes unwavering from you as you focused on his teammates. You didn’t dare spare a glance at him until his name was falling from his friends lips, but the second you made eye contact you knew you were undeniably screwed.

“Hi,” You greeted, your voice sweet and smooth as you stuck your hand out for him to take, “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” He shyly smiles, the calluses of his palm slightly scratching the softness of your own.

A few observing eyes noticed the way the two of you seemed to disappear in your own world, your hands locked together for far longer than necessary and your entire demeanor mirroring his own. It took the announcement of someone buying a round of shots for the two of you to break apart and join the rest of the group, but neither of you strayed too far from the other for the rest of the night.

While you didn’t go home with Quinn that night, you did manage to get his number from him before you went your separate ways. It took a little convincing on your part after he initially rebuffed your question with the simple excuse that he couldn’t because he played for your dad, but you were coy in your second attempt. Reminding him that exchanging phone numbers wasn’t a marriage proposal, that it was just you looking for more friends in a city that was brand new to you, and not long after, you couldn’t hide the smug smirk on your face as he typed his number in your phone.

The two of you started off casually texting, you asking him about his hobbies outside of hockey and him asking about how you were liking Vancouver so far. Your conversations flowed naturally and with ease, the two of you becoming closer than you thought you would in such a short amount of time. However, the two of you didn’t see another until his phone rang one random Friday night between home games. You’d had a bad date that left you stranded at a restaurant in a part of the city you were not yet familiar with and you had no ride home. Getting an uber by yourself was out of the question, and you found yourself clicking on Quinn’s number before anyone else's.

“Hello,” His voice was deep and wary, undoubtedly confused at your unprompted phone call.

“Hey,” You breathed out, “Are you busy?”

“No,” He shook his head, though you can’t see him, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes– Well, no, but it’s just– Do you think you can come pick me up,” You asked, your voice meek and hesitant as your eyes darted around the bustling street life around you.

“Of course,” His response was instant, almost embarrassingly so, “Send me your location and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The restaurant you had been left at was only a fifteen minute drive from him, but he made it in ten. He didn’t ask any questions as he held the passenger door open for you, but you didn’t miss the way his eyes dragged across the people walking by almost as if he was searching for something. Or someone. When he was back in the driver's seat, he silently handed you his phone with the music app open so you could play whatever you wanted as he started driving. However, not even the soft, familiar tune playing through the speakers was enough to ease the awkward tension filling the car.

“So,” You started, hands clasped in your lap as you gazed at him, “What have you been up to tonight?”

He briefly glances at you, a nervous chuckle passing through his lips before he says, “Nothing too exciting. Was just at home relaxing before the game tomorrow. What about you?”

You were quick to gather that you weren’t as outgoing and confident around him when you didn’t have a few drinks in your system, or when you were face to face as opposed to texting. Your heart was pounding in your chest, your fingers wringing together as you tried to keep yourself calm and outwardly collected. It also didn’t help that you picked up on the few wandering eyes of bystanders, their whispers making a ball of anxiety form in your chest at the thought of word somehow getting back to your dad. Though, you tried to push those fears away as you focused on the current moment.

“Well, I was on a date,” You snorted, pressing the side of your head into the headrest as you look between him and the road, “He left after getting some phone call, and left me there without a way home since he insisted on picking me up. Never doing that again.”

“He just left you there,” Quinn slowly asks, and his anger is evident in the way he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel and his jaw is clenched so tightly it looked almost painful. His sudden change in demeanor confused you, made you wonder what you had said that caused such a shift to the usually calm guy next to you.

“Yeah,” You draw out, furrowing your eyebrows together, “But it’s okay, it’s probably the best thing that could’ve happened. I didn’t want to get back in his car.”

“Why even go on a date with someone who makes you feel like that,” He slightly scoffs, but you know he doesn’t truly blame you. At least, you hope he doesn’t.

“He wasn’t that bad over text,” You shamefully shrug, moving your gaze to the dashboard in front of you as you let out a shaky breath, “Plus, he was attractive enough for me to want to go home with him.”

Quinn’s breath hitches in his throat, a wave of jealousy washing over him like a bucket of scalding water, but he brushes it off as he adjusts in his seat and keeps his focus on the road. You can feel the slight shift in the air, but the feeling that lingers is unrecognizable. It’s tension, that much you can tell, but you can’t quite figure out what kind of tension it was. It unsettled you, the unfamiliarity, but you decided to force it down your throat and let the ride home pass in silence.

When Quinn was nearing your apartment complex, you hadn’t expected him to park in one of the guest parking spots and slip out of the car. You pushed the car door open, stepping onto the concrete as he stands near the back of his car with his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. He can see the curiosity swirling in your eyes as you near him, your bag tightly grasped in your hand as you stop and raise your eyebrows as you peer at him.

“I’m just walking you up to your apartment,” He chuckles, shaking his head in amusement, “I was raised with manners, you know.”

“Thought that was typically done after a date,” You tease as you brush past him, trying to shake off the last bout of tension that remained stuck to you.

“Technically, this is,” He smugly points out as he follows closely behind you.

“I guess so,” You hum, throwing him a playful look over your shoulder as you continue, “But I’m not sleeping with you.”

That night, your relationship with Quinn began to shift into something you knew it shouldn’t. You found yourself texting him far more often about anything you could, thinking about him any time you got a free moment to yourself, spending as much time the two of you could spare together. The two of you were teetering over the edge into territory that could be dangerous for both of you, but neither of you were doing anything to stop it.

Quinn knew that what he was doing was a gamble for trouble, his teammates constantly reminding him of that when your name would fall from his lips or pop up on his phone. Truthfully, Quinn had never been much of a risk taker before, always choosing the safe route or weighing all of his options in his head before following through, and he knew developing feelings for you was the biggest risk of all, but he didn't care when it came to you. While he wasn’t exactly sure where the two of you would end up, he was sure that he was willing to face anything that got in his way. To him, you were worth it all.

When your mom called and told you that you had to be at the annual Dice and Ice charity event the team was holding on Sunday, you had to bite your tongue to keep your eagerness at bay when you agreed. It had been nearly a week since you had last seen Quinn, courtesy of his hectic schedule and your busy life, and you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to see him again. Although the setting of your reunion wasn’t exactly ideal, you had high hopes that everyone would be far too busy to analyze any potential interactions you had with him.

The hallways to the venue were freezing, and the lower than normal temperature outside didn’t help in the slightest. While your brothers didn’t seem to mind with their pants and light jackets, you were bundled up in the warmest jacket you owned with a pair of fleece-lined leggings under the dress your mom asked you to wear. Living on the lower east coast for the last few years left you newly unaccustomed to the cold atmosphere you grew up around, and your brothers were not letting you forget about it.

“You would never know she grew up in hockey rinks,” Mason snorts, lightly slapping Trevor on the shoulder.

“She’s just a beach girl now,” Liam teases, “Can’t handle the cold.”

“Duke doesn’t have beaches dumbass,” You roll your eyes, “It’s below freezing outside, anyways. I don’t want to hear you guys bitching about being cold later.”

The four of you get into a playful bout of bickering, your voices growing louder as you try and talk over one another. All of you were far too engrossed in your petty argument that none of your ears picked up on the nearing footsteps until the two guys were standing right in front of you. You all come to an abrupt halt, Liam and Mason snapping their mouths shut as they gape at your new guests.

“Hey guys,” Kiefer greets over the large box in his grasp, his eyes flitting towards you for a brief second.

“What’s up,” Trevor responds, puffing his chest out to make him appear taller.

You roll your eyes at his lame attempt at seeming cool before you ask, ”What are you guys doing?”

“We were sent on a mission,” Elias’ deep voice rumbles, “Or maybe we’re hiding. Who knows? ”

“Right,” You drawl, slightly narrowing your eyes at the taller of the two in confusion, “Well, you guys have fun with that. We’re gonna go.”

You step around the two of them, your brothers following you without protest, but all three of them hear Elias’ not so quiet ‘Should we tell him she’s here?’. They all toss suspicious, curious looks your way, but you lamely shrug your shoulders in mock confusion as you scurry ahead of them. You knew your brothers were far nosier than you were and when they felt out of the loop, they would do anything to figure out what was being kept from them. All you could do was hope that luck was on your side tonight, and that they wouldn’t uncover the one thing you wanted to keep secret.

Quinn found you the second you stepped on the floor with three boys in your wake, and he couldn’t help but gawk at how beautiful you looked. The dress you were wearing was hugging you in all the right places, your hair done in a way that framed your face just right, and he could see the shine in your eyes, even from where he was standing. He could feel the knowing stares from his teammates as he let their conversation fade away, but he wasn’t in any hurry to look away. He was completely and utterly entranced with you.

It didn’t take you long to find Quinn, either. He was tucked in a corner with Conor and Brock, mingling with a few fans near the drink bar with amused smiles on their faces. You could feel your brothers watchful eyes on you, so you were quick to avert your eyes and sneak passing glances whenever you could. Each time their focus shifted to something more worthy, you were instantly letting your eyes fall on Quinn, and you found that he was already looking at you almost every single time.

During the entirety of Quinn’s speech, your eyes never strayed away from him. You hung on to his every word, listening so intently that every other sound around you was temporarily muted. You didn’t pay attention to anything else except for him until you felt a small pinch to your arm, forcing your harsh gaze to your brother as he jerked his head towards your parents. They were rising to their feet as they clapped, so you followed suit and ignored the skeptical look on Trevor’s face.

At first, you weren’t entirely sure where your dad was looking off to, but when Quinn came into view, a pit of nerves formed in your stomach. He had a wide smile on his face, greeting people as he walked by them and ran his non-injured hand through his hair, and the simple act alone made your mind go hazy with thoughts of him. Though, admittedly the closer he got to you, the more sense the empty seat directly to your left made, and you felt like you were going to pass out on the spot.

”Nice speech, Huggy,” Your dad calls out, pulling Quinn into a friendly hug, “It’ll have donations rolling in.”

”Let’s hope so,” Quinn lightly laughs.

As he walks around the table, he stops to politely greet your mom and brothers before he finally gets to you. The shift in his gaze was so subtle that you almost missed it, almost missed the way his eyes sparkled with a glint of comfortable familiarity. Almost as if seeing you, simply being near you, was enough to relax him despite the hectic chaos around him.

“Hi,” He bites back the smile toying at his lips, holding out his hand for you to take, “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Quinn.”

“Hi, Quinn,” You stifle the amused tone threatening to burst to the surface as you tell him your name, “Nice to finally meet you, too.”

You’d been in Vancouver all season, but you had yet to make an appearance at any games or any other team events that would’ve allowed you to ‘meet’ Quinn. Pretending to not know each other was the safe route to go, the easiest way to keep your family unaware of what you had been doing in your free time. You still weren’t entirely sure how your dad would react if he found out you’d been hanging out, and crushing on, one of his players, and you weren’t looking to find out, either. Especially not tonight.

“Two years I’ve been coaching this team,” Your dad calls out as he takes his seat, “And this is the first time my daughter’s meeting everyone.”

“Dad,” You exclaim in annoyance, narrowing your eyes at him as you sit down.

“Sorry, sorry,” He throws his hands up in surrender, “I know you were busy with work and school. I’m just messing around.”

“What were you studying,” Quinn smoothly redirects, fixating his gaze on your face, making your brief bout of frustration disappear like it was never there.

The conversation flows after that, a mixture of hockey and various other topics being thrown around the table. Anytime you and Quinn would disappear into your own world, you could feel Trevor’s suspicious gaze on the side of your face and it served as a careful reminder that you were surrounded by your family and not in the confined walls of his apartment You’d forcefully pull yourself away from him and engage with the others, hoping no one else picked up on it the same way he did. However, judging by the several looks your mom threw your way, she could tell something was up.

By the time the speech portion of the event was over, everyone scrambled off in different directions to participate in whatever caught their eye. Liam and Mason followed your dad to go and talk to some of the bigger sponsors, and Trevor disappeared before you could catch wind of where he was going. A few of Quinn’s teammates hastily pulled him away, but not before he tossed an apologetic look your way. A look that did not go unnoticed.

“I see you and Quinn get along well,” Your mom’s voice startled you, tearing yours way from Quinn’s retreating figure.

“Yeah,” You nervously chuckle, avoiding her stare as you grasp at the fabric of your dress, “He’s nice.”

She lets out a melodic hum, a sound you knew she reserved for when she knew her children were hiding something.

“He is a nice boy,” She affirmed, kissing her teeth before she moves in front of you, “Honey, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know,” You mumble as you finally meet her soft eyes, “But there’s nothing to tell. It was just nice to talk to someone my own age that isn’t from work.”

You could tell that she didn’t fully believe you, but she didn’t press any further. Instead, she pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before she was slipping into the crowd on her own. You stood in your spot, eyes darting through the sea of people in search of no spa in particular. You recognized a few of the girls that had been at the bar the night you met Quinn, but you didn’t feel privy enough to approach them. Finally, you managed to catch a glimpse of your brother standing at one of the roulette tables, and you made your way towards him.

When you reached his side, the dealer called out to you and asked if you were participating, earning a shake of your head as you stood behind Trevor. You weren’t all that great at playing any sort of betting game, but you knew the relative rules and basics and that made it easy to keep up with what was going on. Your brother seemed to be doing fairly well, and, from what you remember, he had a pretty good chance at winning.

“Your boyfriend’s coming over here,” Trevor mumbled, his gaze flicking beside him before the table in front of him reclaimed his focus.

“What,” Your face screwed up in confusion, “Who?”

Your head turned, and your eyes immediately settled on Quinn as he walked towards the table you were standing at. He was passing polite smiles and hello’s to everyone he passed, but he made no efforts to stop and converse further. The way your heart rate increased so quickly at the mere sight of him was almost worrisome, though it was a feeling you’d grown accustomed to by now. No matter how many times you saw him, or what you were doing, he made your heart race.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” You whisper under your breath, subtly kicking the leg of Trevor’s chair.

“Tell that to your face,” He smugly states without glancing in your direction.

Before you can say anything else, the sound of Quinn’s voice calling your name echoes in your ears. You take a deep, ragged breath, shifting your gaze to Quinn as he comes to a stop right beside you. He’s got his hands shoved into his pockets now, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks as he flickers his eyes between you and your brother.

“You not playin’,” He asks, clearing his throat before he settles on watching the table.

“Absolutely not,” You snort, shifting on your feet, “I’ll leave Trevor to betting all Dad’s money”

“At least it’s for a good cause,” He jokes as he gently knocks his elbow against your own, “How much is the pot?”

“Not sure what it is now,” You hum, letting your eyes trail to Quinn’s face, “I heard someone say something about double or nothing, though.”

“Oh he’s a risk taker, I see,” Quinn chuckles as his eyes dart across your face, “Must run in the family.”

“What’s a reward without a little risk,” You flirt, ignoring the blood pounding in your ears and the knots twisting in your stomach.

The sound of Trevor clearing his throat rips through the veil of tension that surrounds the two of you, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Quinn and straighten your back. You met the careful, warning filled stare he was throwing over his shoulder before he turned his focus back to the game in front of him, and you felt your entire face heat up in embarrassment like you’d been caught sneaking a boy into your room. You force yourself to keep your focus on what was going on in front of you, rather than the dark haired man who has been residing in your dreams for the last few months. Though, Quinn wasn’t making that easy on you with every fleeting touch to the arm or question he threw your way.

“Hey,” He quietly calls out to you, eyes soft and hopeful, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Your gaze flickers back to your brother who was now honed in on the game before curtly nodding at Quinn. You follow closely behind him, ignoring the needles of anxiety that were poking your skin at the idea of someone somehow twisting what they saw and it getting back to your dad. In reality, you knew most people would assume that Quinn was likely helping you, guiding you in the unfamiliar building, but you knew how nosy people could be sometimes. They loved a good headline for their gossip sessions, and the last thing you wanted was your name on the front page. Fortunately for you, the two of you came to a quick stop as you joined a group of his teammates and their partners.

Brock was the first to notice you, cheerfully greeting you before he pulls you into a friendly hug, which was shortly followed by one from his girlfriend. The others were simple with their hello’s, sticking to small waves and verbal greetings, and you happily returned them all.

“Bella,” Quinn mumbled under his breath, slightly jerking his head towards you.

“Oh, right,” Her face lights up with recognition, “I asked Quinn to bring you over here because I,” Her gaze briefly flickers towards Quinn, “Wanted to know if you’d be interested in going out with us afterwards? We’re just going to go to a bar for some drinks. Probably the one we met you at, actually!”

“I’d love to,” You rush out embarrassingly fast, your face slightly heating up before you collect yourself, “I’ll have to tell my family though. I rode here with my parents and brothers.”

You felt like a child as you told them that you had to practically ask for permission, but, judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, they already knew that. None of them were giving you any sort of weird looks, or looks of judges. In fact, they had all let their eyes fall on Quinn as he stood behind you with his hands shoved in his pockets and a bashful look on his face. It was then that the cliche lightbulb went off in your head.

He knew that you would need a good enough cover story to leave without your family. It was something you’d mentioned over text the day before, and he was giving you just that.

“That’s okay,” Bella continues, “We won’t be leaving until the events well over so there’s plenty of time. We just wanted to give you a heads up.”

After that, you fell into a casual conversation with the group of them, even after Quinn and the guys had to wander off for teamly duties. The girls were nice, asking you about work and how you had been liking Vancouver so far, and they answered any questions you asked them without complaint. You stayed with them for a while, letting yourself enjoy their company before Bella reminded you that you still had to clue your family in on your plans for the night and time was about to run out.

You slipped back into the dwindling crowd, stepping around chair and circles of people as you searched for your Mom or Dad. It didn’t take you long to find them near the stage, both of them engaged in what seemed like a pleasant conversation with an older couple you vaguely remember meeting earlier in the evening. Once you finally reached them, you stood off to the side and patiently waited until they were finished up, and you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself at how childish it all felt.

“Hi honey,” Your mom was the first to call out to you, her arm looped with your dads as she tugs him to face you, “Everything okay? We’re about to head out soon.”

“I was actually coming to tell you guys that I’m going to go home with Bella, Brock’s girlfriend,” You nervously admitted, picking up on the subtle flash of suspicion on your moms face, “They invited me out for drinks.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Your dad sighs as he anxiously glances at your mom, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Who knows who’ll be there and—”

“I know Dad, but you know I don’t have many friends here. I swear I’ll keep my ‘coaches daughter’ appearance up the whole time.”

A brief pause hangs in the air, and you know your mom can see right through the charade you were playing, but she keeps it to herself. In fact, she quietly encourages your dad to agree and let you have the night with friends.

“Okay, okay,” He finally shakes his head, small smile tugging at his lips, “I trust you. Have fun, okay? And be safe. Call me if you need a ride no matter what time it is. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

“I will,” You practically squeal, lunging forward to pull them both into a hug, “I promise! I love you guys!”

You reconnected with the girls as they hovered near the bar that held everyone’s jackets and purses, telling them that everything was good on your end. They all let out excited cheers before diving into what was the overly complicated driving situation. You could barely follow along, but what you were able to gather was several people carpooled and now there weren’t enough seats, which didn’t make any sense to you.

“Wait,” You politely interrupt, “You said Elias and Conor rode here with Quinn, so why can’t they do that now?”

“Captain’s orders,” Bella drops her left eye into a wink, making your entire face warm and your chest warm.

You don’t have much time to think about her insinuation before the guys are crowding around you all over again. The already loud conversation seemingly increased times ten as everyone tried to talk over one another, but eventually they were able to come to enough of an agreement for everyone to finally filter out to the parking garage. You noticed that Brock and Bella made sure to stay close to Quinn, which in turn, meant you could stay close to him without worrying about your parents wandering eyes.

“You ridin’ with me,” Quinn asks as you step into the brisk Canadian air.

“I think that is the plan,” You confirm, glancing at him with a teasing glint shining in your eyes, “Apparently it’s just us, though. Something about ‘captain's orders’ I heard.”

“Oh, did you,” He raises his eyebrows, a mischievous smile toying at his lips, “Guess we have to follow them, don’t we?”

You follow Quinn to his car, settling into the familiar leather seat as he adjusts the temperature and hands you his phone so you can pick the music. You're scrolling through Apple Music when he starts backing out, but it doesn’t take you long to queue up a bunch of songs you know you’ll both like. After so many car rides and impromptu karaoke sessions, you’d grown used to his music taste. You put his phone in the cup holder, softly singing along to the song as you fall into the comfortable silence that fills the car.

“You okay if we swing by my apartment first,” Quinn asks after a few minutes, glancing away from the road to look at you for a second, “I want to change before we head there and I think I still have some of your clothes at my house from when your washer broke.”

“Oh, that’d be great actually. I need to get out of this dress,” You dramatically groan, pushing your head into the headrest, “It’s a little uncomfortable, but my mom insisted that I wear it. She said it was ‘sophisticated’ or whatever.”

“Well, you look good,” Quinn rushes out, clearing his throat as he puts extra effort into looking at the road in front of him.

Your gaze flickers over to him, fixating on his face and taking quick notice to his cheeks that were tinged pink, but you can’t tell if it’s from how warm his car was or the comment that still hung in the air.

“Thank you, Quinn,” You sheepishly smile, letting your eyes fall to his hands as one grips the steering wheel and the other rests on his thigh, “You look good, too.”

It doesn’t take long for Quinn to get to his apartment, pulling into his usual parking spot before he’s quickly jumping out of his seat and speed walking around his car. You knew what he was doing, and you always pretended to be busy gathering your stuff until he was there to open the door. A fact you’re certain he knew, but neither of you ever brought it up to one another. If you mentioned it, it would only lead to a conversation that neither you nor him were quite ready to have with each other.

“My place is a little messy,” He bashfully admits as he sticks his key into the door, “Haven’t had much time to clean lately.”

You wave him off with a small shake of the head, stepping around him when he pushes the door open to let you inside. Your eyes graze over his apartment, your brows arching as you take in what his idea of messy was. He had a few stray hoodies thrown about, some dishes lingering on the kitchen counter, and maybe two take out containers on his dining table. He’d hate to see the state your apartment was currently in if he thought this was bad.

“Your clothes are in the guest room, so you can change in there and then we’ll head out,” He clears his throat, tossing his keys on the small table before he turns to you.

You were shrugging your coat off, carefully laying it over the back of his kitchen stool since he had yet to get an actual rack to hang anything on. He couldn’t stop himself from letting his eyes drag the length of your body as if he hadn’t spent the entire evening doing that already. His fingers twitched at his side, the urge to commit the feeling of you to memory growing the longer he let himself stare.

“Sounds good,” You hum, pivoting on you heels to catch Quinn already looking at you. Even though he was quick to look away, it was too late. He’d been made.

Quinn mumbles something incoherent before he darts down the hallway to his room, leaving you almost as flustered as he was in the middle of his living room. You’d spent time alone with him before, several times, but you’d never caught him blatantly checking you out before, and it made your stomach twist itself into undoble knots. It took you a few moments to gather yourself enough and will your feet to move down the hall and into the guest room.

With the door shut behind you, you scan the room until you find that the clothes you had left were neatly folded on the small dresser across from the bed. You hadn’t realized that you left so much at Quinn’s, but you were grateful for that now, wanting to shed yourself of the dress that was digging into your skin the longer you wore it. As you picked through a few of the shirts, you froze when your fingers brush against the fabric of a hoodie you knew didn’t belong to you.

You recognized the logo on it immediately, having seen it during the many times you had stolen the hoodie it decorated when you’d conveniently forgotten to bring your own every time the two of you hung out. You’re not sure how it got mixed up with your laundry, but if Quinn had taken the time to fold all of your things, he had to have left it in there on purpose. He had to have knowingly left his hoodie, a hoodie he told you a hundred times he loved, in a pile of your clothes, but why?

Deciding not to spend too much time dwelling on a piece of clothing, you let it fall on the dresser and stepped out of your heels. You glanced between your shoes and the pants you had left here, suddenly regretting your choice to forego the flats you were contemplating with earlier, but you accepted the fact you were going to have to make it work. After all, it was either that or stick with the dress, and that was the last thing you were going to do.

You had shed the fleece leggings, tossing them on the floor somewhere before you were grasping at the zipper of your dress trying to free yourself from it, but it seemed to be stuck. No matter how hard you tugged or what position you stood in, it just wasn’t budging. You tried pulling the sleeves over your shoulders to pull it down, but the fabric wasn’t flexible enough and kept you trapped in its stupid confinement. Letting out a defeated groan, you stared at the door knowing that your only hope at freedom was right down the hall.

“Hey, Quinn,” You called out, sticking your head through the break in the door, “Can you come help me really quick?”

“Uh, yeah,” You hear him shout in response, “Be there in a sec.”

You leave the door cracked open enough that he would know to come right in and awkwardly stood near the end of the bed with your hands clasped in front of you as you rocked on your feet. There was a small bout of nervousness forming in your chest at the idea that Quinn was quite literally about to help you undress, but you tried to snuff it out by reminding yourself that it was just a friendly thing. A friend helping out another friend. Just two friends who are friendly.

“What’s up,” He says as soon as he steps through the doorway, his eyes darting up to your hair that you’d messed up during your zipper induced frustration, “Everything okay?”

The second you saw Quinn, you felt everything around you come to a screeching halt. He had gotten rid of his suit jacket, but he was still wearing the white button up that was underneath. Only now, the first few buttons were undone and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and it made you completely lose the ability to function properly until you heard him call out your name again.

“Sorry,” You sheepishly murmur as you shake your head, “Sorry. I just, uh, I need some help with the zipper on my dress. I think it’s stuck and I can’t get it.”

“Oh,” Quinn breathes out, visibly swallowing before he nods, “Yeah, okay. I can do that. No problem. Easy money.”

He mumbles a few more things under his breath as he walks towards you, but they were too low for you to understand. You nervously turn around so that your back was towards him, your heart pounding in your chest and your ears ringing as you waited with baited breath. You can hear the unevenness of Quinn’s breathing behind you, the sound telling you that he was just as nervous about this as you were. Though you didn’t let yourself believe it was for the same reasons, no matter how badly you wanted it to be.

“I’m gonna—,” Quinn stutters, his fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of your upper back, “I’m going to try and do it now.”

All you managed in response was a small, curt nod, not trusting yourself to speak when he was so close to you. You can feel the pressure from his hand, but you can tell that he’s being careful to not actually touch you. To not let his fingers brush against your soft skin the way that you desperately wanted him to. Your body reacted before your mind could, your feet shuffling back so you were closer to him and he had less room to pull away, but he didn’t move.

He stayed in the same spot, this time letting his knuckles graze your spine as he effortlessly tugged the zipper down until it came to a stop just above the curve of your ass. A trail of goosebumps chased his fingers, leaving the skin behind them on fire and your body shuddering when he slowly pulls away. Every nerve in your body was burning with months worth of desire to feel more, to feel him on every inch of your body in ways that a friend shouldn’t. It was making your sense of reasoning cloudy, but maybe that was exactly what you needed.

“Quinn,” You whisper, your eyes fluttering closed as you hesitantly turn to face him, “Can I ask you something?”

When you find the courage to meet his gaze, it felt like time was beginning to crawl, teasing and testing you to the point of breaking. It felt like the world was putting everything on pause for you until you decided what you wanted. To decide if you were willing to risk what felt like everything on the off chance that the guy in front of you was willing to do the same.

“You can ask me anything,” He softly affirms, looking at you with a gaze so intense it makes your knees grow weak.

“What would you say if I told you I wanted you to kiss me,” You shakily mutter as you feel the gap between the two of you closing. You’re not entirely sure who was initiating it, maybe it was both of you, but it didn’t matter.

“I’d say that we shouldn’t,” He declares, his eyes dropping to your lips, “That your dad is my coach and I don’t know if we should take a risk that big.”

His face was barely two inches away from you now, and you can feel his breath fanning your face as anticipation builds in the lower part of your stomach. You barely register the way he was cradling your jaw in your palm until his thumb was brushing over your lips, sending a shiver down your spine and one of your sleeves slipping off your shoulder.

“Do you want to know what I would say to that,” You subtly challenge, looking up at him through your lashes, “I’d say that sometimes the risk is worth the reward.”

The words had barely gotten out of your mouth before Quinn was slamming his lips on yours in a kiss so blinding that you had to grab a hold of his shoulder to keep yourself steady. His mouth was moving against yours so desperately, so fervent and yearning for more as his hand slid to cup the back of your head and he slipped his tongue into your mouth. Heat coursed throughout your entire body as you clung to Quinn, as you use his body to keep yourself from toppling over from how hard he was kissing you.

His other hand finds purchase on your hip as he carefully guides your body backwards until you can feel the mattress on the backs of your thighs. You let your body fall against it, Quinn following closely behind until he’s hovering over you and your hands are tangled in his hair. You’re tugging at the roots, coy smirk tugging at your lips when he groans against your mouth, and one of your legs is hooked behind him to pull him even closer to you.

You can feel his bulge pressed on the inner part of your thigh as he grinds against you, applying pressure to the one spot you needed him the most. A soft moan slips through your lips with each passing movement he makes, and Quinn nearly comes undone from the sound alone. The idea of still trying to meet up with his friends had already been fleeting the second he walked into the room, but now it wasn’t even an afterthought. All he could think about was you. The way you looked, the way you felt, the way you sounded. Quinn was willing to give up anything and everything as long as he got to have that. As long as he got to have you.

me and open, vague endings are besties if you couldn't tell ;)

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes one shot #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #abby writes 💻

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