#s. sims | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

si3rren · 6 days ago

Text

- Nerd, Interrupted -

enhypen masterlist part 2

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

summary: You’re a shy, pretty, and inexperienced nerd with a habit of reading smut and wearing skirts a little too short for your own safety. Sunghoon, the tall boy who won’t leave you alone, bullies you — but only because he’s completely in love. What starts as teasing slowly burns into something deeper and more dangerous. You were never clueless. He was never playing. And once your thigh highs come out… so does the truth.

warning: sexual tension, explicit smut, degradation kink, praise kink, non-harmful bully x nerd dynamics, obsessive behavior, voyeuristic undertones, emotional vulnerability, inexperience themes, filthy language during smut, possessive male lead.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ

You always sit in the same spot.

Far left corner. Second floor. Behind the dusty encyclopedia shelves no one touches anymore.

You have your own little universe up here: a corner chair with a sun-warmed armrest, a power socket you guard with your life, and your annotated copy of Modern Chemistry: Foundations and Applications resting in your lap, pages marked with violet flags and smudged with highlighter. Your dark lipstick is freshly applied, a glassy wine-red sheen against your otherwise plain, focused expression. You’re the kind of girl that makes people nervous — pretty, but quiet. Reserved. Always looking like you’re about to ace the exam you didn’t even know was happening.

It’s not that you like being alone. You’ve just learned how to be very good at it.

But peace is a fragile thing.

Especially when Park Sunghoon finds it amusing to ruin yours.

“Wow.” His voice drops behind you, a smooth mix of mock surprise and low amusement. “Didn’t think nerds came in high definition.”

You don’t jump. But your fingers tighten around your pen.

He leans against the bookshelf beside you — tall, broad, arms crossed like he owns the place. Which, socially speaking, he kind of does. He’s one of those boys: the effortless popular kind, sharp jaw, smug smirk, and a voice you hate how well you recognize. Every word he says to you is laced with that same I-know-I’m-hot venom that makes your chest buzz in a way you can’t stand.

“Let me guess.” He nudges your book with the tip of his knuckle, voice dripping with mockery. “Reading ahead for a test no one cares about?”

You keep your eyes on the page. “I care.”

“Aww.” He drops into the chair beside you like he has any right to. His leg knocks into yours — long, warm, uninvited. You freeze. “That’s cute.”

You stare at your book harder. You don’t respond. You know how this goes. The moment you give him attention, he triples the chaos. He’s not a traditional bully — he doesn’t push you into lockers or throw things at you. But what he does do is worse: he whispers things in class to make you blush, calls you Professor Tits behind your back loud enough that it echoes, and steals your pens only to leave them on your desk the next day with hearts drawn on them in black sharpie.

And now? He’s in your library chair. With his freakishly long legs brushing yours every time he shifts.

You tuck your skirt more tightly around your thighs.

Sunghoon notices.

“Mm.” He hums, eyes glinting as he tilts his head. “You always wear those skirts, huh? No shame for a nerd.”

You snap your gaze up.

He grins at your flushed expression. He’s so tall, even while slouching, his frame dwarfing the little space between you. You hate how your stomach turns, not with fear — but something stupid and fluttery and hormonal.

“I’m not ashamed,” you mumble.

“Oh, I know,” he teases. “You love attention. Don’t pretend you don’t. Always sitting like that, all innocent, pretending you’re just here to study when you know every guy in the building wants to bend you over that desk.”

You gasp, scandalized — cheeks burning. “Sunghoon—!”

“What?” He says your name like it’s a joke. “Am I wrong?”

You try to push your chair back, but he stops you — one long leg swinging casually over yours, boxing you in.

“Relax.” His voice softens. Too close. Too smug. “You’re just fun to mess with. You make the best faces.”

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips parted in disbelief. “You’re such a child.”

He leans in a little — face tilting down to meet your height, his mouth just slightly crooked.

“And you’re such a virgin.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He doesn’t say it like an insult. He says it like he knows — like he’s been thinking about it. A lot.

“I—” You stammer, but nothing coherent comes out.

Sunghoon watches you fumble with your pen, your breath catching, your hands trembling slightly, and something shifts in his face. He looks… satisfied. Like he’s won something. Not the conversation, but something deeper. Something that sinks into your skin and makes your heart race.

“I’m right,” he says lowly.

You want to slap him. You want to vanish. You want to throw him off the building. But most of all, you want to understand why your heart is hammering in your ears like this. Why your thighs are clenched and your mouth is dry and your brain is filled with the memory of the way he looked at you just now — like you were some kind of puzzle he��s dying to tear apart.

Instead, you grab your bag.

“I’m going to class.”

“Class isn’t for twenty minutes.”

You shoot him a glare. “I need to study.”

He lets you go. Doesn’t stop you. But his eyes trail down your legs — slow, lingering — and when you walk away, you feel his gaze, thick and unrelenting.

⸻

Elsewhere on campus, your best friend Yunjin is waiting under the shade tree by the courtyard steps, arms folded and eyebrows raised.

“You have that face again.”

You adjust your bag. “What face?”

“The Sunghoon harassed me again but I don’t want to admit it made my stomach flutter face.”

You sputter. “That is not a real face.”

“It is when you wear it every day.”

You groan and flop beside her. Jake walks by with a protein bar in his mouth, shooting you both a casual nod. Sunoo is sitting backwards in a chair nearby, eavesdropping like it’s his job.

“Did he quote one of your smut books again?” Sunoo asks.

You freeze.

Yunjin leans forward, scandalized. “Wait, did he?”

You bite your lip. “…He might have.”

Sunoo squeals. “Girl, you need to stop reading those in public. That man is waiting for you to drop a page so he can sniff it.”

“He’s just an asshole,” you grumble.

“He’s a hot asshole,” Yunjin corrects.

“I don’t care.”

They both snort. Because they know you care. You just won’t admit it.

And neither will he.

Not yet.

_________

It starts as a normal day.

As normal as it can be, anyway, when you wake up with your heart already pounding from a dream you don’t want to talk about. Not even to yourself. Not even to your pillow.

It was about him again.

Not that anything happened. Not really. Just flashes — long legs brushing yours under the library desk. That smug mouth curling as he whispered something filthy in your ear. The heat of his hand almost, almost resting on your knee. The dream didn’t even go further than that. It didn’t need to. You woke up hot and bothered, thighs pressed together, breath coming in short little bursts like a broken whisper.

You hate that he gets under your skin like this. Sunghoon. The tall, annoying, gorgeous bane of your academic existence. You hate his jokes. His smirks. His stupid boy perfume that lingers behind every time he walks past your locker.

And you especially hate that the dreams started around the same time he found out you read romance novels.

You’d been so careful. You read on your tablet in class, the screen tinted to look like a textbook. You marked your place with clean little sticky notes that matched the color scheme of your physics binder. You never highlighted the dirty lines.

But last week, somehow, he found one of your paperbacks in your bag. It was just sitting there when you returned from the bathroom, pages slightly open, your highlighter tucked inside.

He hadn’t said anything then. Just raised his brows at you like he’d unlocked a cheat code.

You’d prayed he forgot.

He did not forget.

⸻

The next day, after class—

You’re minding your own business in the campus courtyard, tucked under a tree with a book in your lap — a different one this time. Something safer. Something classic. Jane Eyre. Which, to be fair, still has some intense longing scenes, but at least it doesn’t have phrases like “his tongue mapped the inside of her soul”.

You turn a page, ink-smudged fingers tucked under your chin, knees drawn up under your skirt — when a shadow falls over you.

“Didn’t peg you for a Brontë girl,” a voice drawls.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Try to remain calm.

“Go away, Sunghoon.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he drops down beside you on the grass, legs sprawled out carelessly, like this patch of campus is his kingdom. His uniform is slightly rumpled — tie loosened, sleeves pushed up to reveal tan forearms that look entirely too smug for a Tuesday.

“What, no sexy warlocks today?” he teases, eyeing the cover. “No vampires with six-packs? No ‘his length twitched at the sight of her’? Or did you leave that one in your bra again?”

Your entire soul exits your body.

“You went through my bag?”

“You left it wide open,” he shrugs. “I was doing you a favor. What if someone else found out you read fanfic with plot?”

You slam the book shut, face burning. “It’s not fanfic.”

He leans closer. “So you admit you read it.”

“Sunghoon,” you say warningly.

He reaches out and tugs your book away, ignoring your gasp. You lunge to grab it, but he’s holding it way above your reach. Which is criminal, really. Freakishly tall bastard.

You scramble to your knees, trying to claw it back. “Give it!”

“Nope.” He grins, flipping through the pages. “Let’s see where Professor Tits left off…”

You gasp. “Don’t call me that!”

He flips to a bookmarked page and clears his throat.

“‘She whimpered as he pinned her hands above her head, his mouth devouring her neck with possessive hunger, whispering filth into her ear she’d never heard before.’”

Your entire soul evaporates into steam.

“SUNGHOO—”

“‘Her skirt bunched around her hips—’” he reads, eyes flicking to your actual skirt for one shameless second, “—‘his hands branding her skin like fire.’”

You lunge for him, tackling him in the grass, trying to snatch the book back with a strangled yell. But he’s stronger than you. And obnoxiously amused. You’re half on top of him now, your hands clawing at the spine while he just laughs, breath warm against your cheek as he reads:

“‘Please,’ she begged, ‘I can’t—’”

“‘You will,’ he growled—’”

You yank the book from his grip, flush a shade of crimson not even found in nature, and scramble back into your spot, face hidden behind your knees.

Sunghoon props himself up on his elbows, still lying in the grass, watching you with a boyish smirk.

“You know,” he says lazily, “you don’t need a book for that kind of thing.”

You slowly peek at him through your fingers. “What?”

He shrugs, lashes low over those sharp eyes. “Someone like you? Pretty. Shy. Always sitting with your legs crossed like a good little girl. You don’t think some guy’s dying to—”

“Stop talking.”

He sits up, amused. “Why? I thought you liked dirty talk. You highlight the good parts.”

You fling a leaf at him.

Sunghoon dodges it with ease, smirk growing. “You’re lucky I like nerds.”

“No, I’m lucky you have no shame.”

He clutches his chest like he’s wounded. “Ouch.”

You glare at him, trying not to laugh. Trying.

He pushes up from the grass with an easy, languid stretch, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of sharp hip bones. You look away instantly. Too late.

He notices.

“See you tomorrow, Professor.”

You don’t answer.

You just flip open your book again — to a very different page — and pretend he didn’t just make your thighs ache for reasons you’ll never say out loud.

⸻

Later that evening—

You’re studying with Yunjin and Sunoo in your room. The usual setup: flashcards, open laptops, snacks you’ll regret, and Yunjin’s playlist of girl group bangers in the background.

“He read your book?” Yunjin shrieks.

Sunoo nearly chokes on a gummy worm. “Out loud? In public?! Oh, he wants you. He wants you so bad it’s illegal.”

You groan into your pillow.

“It’s not like that,” you mumble.

Yunjin snorts. “Babe, he has a whole sexual harassment arc planned out in his head. The slow burn? The enemies to lovers? He’s living your smut fantasy.”

“He’s annoying.”

“He’s obsessed.”

Sunoo hums. “You should ask yourself why you’re not, like, really mad about it.”

You go quiet.

Because that’s the problem. You should be mad. You should hate how he always corners you, always flusters you, always finds the one button to press and presses it until you break.

But a small, stupid part of you…

Wants him to keep pushing.

_______

It starts with your name on the projector.

Not in a good way.

You’re sitting front row, highlighter poised, when your chemistry professor clears her throat and says, “Alright, we’re pairing off for the next lab cycle. Each of you will work with your designated partner for the next two weeks. Names are on the board. No switches.”

Your eyes flick up.

You scan the list. Fast. Already mentally preparing to work with someone quiet, maybe even someone you can control a little — because group work, for you, is like handing a toddler your thesis.

Then you see it.

Your name.

Next to his.

Y/N L/N × Park Sunghoon

Your soul leaves your body.

You blink once. Twice.

Surely there’s been a mistake. The universe wouldn’t be this cruel. You’ve done nothing to deserve this. You recycle. You use turn signals. You highlight with restraint.

But there it is. Burning bright on the projector like a death sentence.

You barely hear the professor’s next sentence. Something about goggles. Safety. Don’t blow up the lab. Whatever.

Because behind you, a voice says low and delighted:

“Well, well, well. Look who finally has to play nice.”

You squeeze your pen so hard the cap snaps.

⸻

Ten minutes later, at your lab table—

Sunghoon strolls over like he’s auditioning for a fragrance commercial. He smells like clean soap and something boyish and warm that makes your stomach do inappropriate things. His lab coat is open, his ID badge hanging crookedly from the collar, and he leans on the counter with both arms like it’s his personal modeling platform.

You pretend to be invested in the periodic table.

“Don’t worry, nerd,” he murmurs, dipping close. “I’m great with chemistry.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t touch anything.”

He grins. “Yes, Professor.”

You hate him. You hate him.

Mostly because he’s so tall that he has to bend way down to look you in the eye. And when he does, your whole body reacts like it’s being dragged across a live wire.

“I mean it,” you say, elbowing him lightly. “This is my GPA. Don’t ruin it.”

He leans in even closer — just enough to make your breath catch.

“Would never ruin you,” he murmurs, too soft, too intimate.

Your heart stutters.

You look at him. He’s not smiling now. Not really. His expression is unreadable — some strange mix of amusement and something heavier, darker. Something… unfamiliar.

You shove the reaction away.

“I’ll take the measurements,” you say quickly, pulling the graduated cylinder toward you. “You just… don’t get in the way.”

“Whatever you say,” he drawls, shifting behind you.

And then he’s right there — standing behind your shoulder as you pour, his body heat brushing yours, his breath disturbingly close to your ear.

You fumble.

A few drops spill over the edge of the cylinder.

“Careful, nerd,” he says. “You’re trembling.”

You are. Just slightly. But it’s not because you’re scared. It’s because his voice is low and thick and way too close, and his chest brushes your back when he leans forward to glance at the beaker.

And because for some reason…

You don’t move away.

⸻

Half an hour later—

The lab smells like antiseptic, alcohol, and the faint tang of lemon cleaner. The experiment is simple: titration. Measure. Pour. Record. Repeat.

And yet somehow, this is the hardest hour of your life.

Because Sunghoon won’t. Stop. Hovering.

Every time you shift, he shifts too — close enough that his thigh bumps yours, his arm brushes your elbow, his breath tickles your neck.

And every time you ask him to “stop doing that,” he just says “doing what?” in the smuggest voice known to man.

It’s a miracle you haven’t broken a glass.

“Write down the value,” you mumble, pushing the log sheet toward him.

He leans over, his shoulder nudging yours, pen scrawling across the paper in lazy, cocky handwriting.

You try to ignore how broad his chest is. How his fingers are ink-stained and long and stupidly hot. How your knees are practically touching now.

And then he drops the pen.

Right between your feet.

You freeze.

He crouches, slowly, almost dramatically — his head disappearing under the desk as he reaches for it. And when he rises back up, something shifts. His eyes. His smirk. His voice.

“Nice panties.”

You whip around, eyes wide.

“What?!”

He smiles. “Lace, huh? Classy.”

You want the ground to eat you alive.

“I’m—” You stutter, mortified. “I’m wearing shorts under my skirt!”

“Sure you are.” He grins, tossing the pen onto the desk. “Didn’t say I saw skin. Just said I liked the color.”

You die inside.

He chuckles, picking up your notes.

“And here I thought you were innocent.”

You blink. Your voice is quiet now. Honest. “I am.”

He glances at you. Stops.

For one beat, he doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. Just looks at you.

You expect him to make fun of you. But he doesn’t.

He just says, quieter than before: “…Yeah. I know.”

And then the teasing glint returns.

“But I bet your books aren’t.”

You groan, shoving your face into your arm.

Sunghoon laughs — really laughs — the sound of it echoing off the sterile walls like sunshine cracking through the ceiling. You kind of hate that it sounds good. You kind of hate that it makes you want to laugh.

But most of all…

You hate that your hand is still tingling from when his accidentally brushed yours.

⸻

After class—

Jake is waiting for you outside the science building.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes flicking over your flushed face.

You nod too fast. “Fine. Lab stuff.”

“Did he mess with you?”

You hesitate. “Not really. Just being… him.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You sure?”

You nod again. “Yeah.”

He walks you to the café without another word.

But behind you, across the lawn, Sunghoon is leaning against the stair rail. His hands are in his pockets. His hair is messy. His smirk is gone.

He’s watching you.

And he doesn’t look amused anymore.

____________

Your locker is always clean.

Not obsessively, but neatly — like everything in your life, it’s arranged to keep people out. Pencil cases stacked by color. Books lined up in subject order. A lavender air freshener clipped to the top shelf. Even your emergency snacks are sealed in Ziploc bags, labeled with sticky notes like Don’t Touch (Yunjin) and Mine (Still Yunjin, don’t lie).

You don’t trust easily.

You especially don’t trust people like Sunghoon.

Which is why the moment you see your locker door slightly ajar after third period, your stomach drops like a stone.

You stop walking.

Yunjin keeps going — then pauses and doubles back, noticing your frozen stance.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and pull your locker open.

The inside looks… the same. Sort of.

But your notebook — your private notebook — the one you use for doodles and little diary entries and the occasional steamy paragraph you don’t want to admit you wrote — it’s not where it should be. It’s not under your folders. It’s not behind your lab manual.

You blink once. Twice.

Panic prickles under your skin.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

Yunjin leans over. “Wait—what’s missing?”

You don’t answer.

Because that’s the thing. You know what’s missing. You just don’t want to say it out loud.

⸻

Two hours later—

You find him in the art wing.

Sunghoon’s sitting alone in the back row of the photography lab, long legs stretched under the desk, flipping through something that definitely doesn’t belong to him.

Your notebook.

Your fucking notebook.

You march in before you even think it through, yanking it from his hands so fast he lets out a low, surprised laugh.

“Easy, nerd. Might tear a page.”

You hold it to your chest, face burning. “You broke into my locker?”

“Wasn’t locked.”

“That’s not the point!”

He tilts his head, annoyingly calm. “You dropped your schedule the other day. I figured you’d come here to yell.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs.

“I—what the hell is wrong with you?” Your voice is high now, trembling with embarrassment. “That’s private, Sunghoon. That’s my notebook. There’s—there’s—”

“Scenes?” he says casually. “Plots? A character who definitely isn’t based on me?”

You freeze.

Oh no.

He read that part.

The scene you wrote during math last week. The one you swore you’d delete. The one where a tall, smug male lead corners the innocent bookworm in the school stairwell and says something along the lines of “Tell me how many times you touched yourself thinking about me.”

Your soul detonates.

“You weren’t supposed to see that—”

He stands.

Slowly. Deliberately.

You instinctively take a step back. He doesn’t touch you — doesn’t have to. He just moves into your space with the kind of lazy confidence that should be illegal.

“So you have thought about me,” he says, eyes dark and unreadable.

You clutch the notebook tighter. “That was fiction.”

He smirks. “Was it?”

“Obviously,” you snap. “You’re not even nice to me!”

He tilts his head. “You think I’d be nice if I got you alone?”

Your throat tightens.

You hate him. You hate that he has this effect on you. That you’re still standing here. That your fingers are shaking. That you want to kiss him just to shut him up.

“I’m not… I don’t…” You swallow hard. “I don’t do stuff like that.”

He studies you.

Not like he’s judging you — but like he’s learning you. Filing away every detail.

“I know.”

You blink.

“I know you don’t,” he says again, this time softer. “You blush when someone touches your hand. You flinch when someone calls you pretty. You get scared when people ask if you’ve dated. I know.”

Your breath catches.

And for a second — a split second — you think he might say something real. Something honest. Something that would shatter the stupid rhythm of your days.

But then his smirk returns.

He steps back. “But you write like someone who wants to.”

You burn.

He walks out.

You stand alone, clutching your notebook, your heart pounding in your throat.

⸻

Later that night—

Yunjin and Sunoo are sitting on your bed, watching you pace.

“He read it?” Sunoo gasps. “Like really read it?”

You nod, dying slowly.

“And then quoted it back to you?”

You nod again, collapsing into your blanket.

Yunjin’s jaw is on the floor. “Babe. That is not normal bully behavior.”

Sunoo raises a brow. “That’s ‘I have a secret folder of pictures of you’ behavior.”

You bury your face in a pillow. “I want to vanish.”

“But like,” Yunjin leans closer, “was he mean about it?”

You hesitate.

“No,” you admit. “Just… smug.”

“So,” Sunoo concludes. “He’s into it.”

“I’m going to die.”

Yunjin hums. “No, babe. You’re going to wear a short skirt next week and finish him off.”

You laugh — just a little.

Because you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

But soon?

Maybe.

_________

The day you wear the short skirt is just a regular Thursday.

At least for you.

You didn’t mean to cause anything. You didn’t plan a thing. You’re wearing the same style of outfit you always do — a black pleated skirt, mid-thigh, soft cotton; thigh-high socks with lace trim; and a fitted cardigan buttoned up to your collarbone. Hair tied with a little black ribbon. Gloss dark and shiny. You’re still you.

Just a little cuter than usual.

Maybe you were tired of blending in. Maybe you needed a confidence boost. Or maybe you just liked how the outfit made you feel — pretty, in a way that was yours and yours alone.

You walk into the library, as always, twenty minutes before your study group meets. You take the back corner chair again. You plug in your tablet. You open your book.

Everything is normal.

Until you hear the scrape of a chair behind you.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“…Sunghoon.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

You glance back.

He’s standing just far enough to look casual. But something’s… different.

His expression is unreadable. His usual smirk? Gone. In its place is something still. Quiet. Controlled.

Too controlled.

You tilt your head. “What?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, his eyes drift — deliberately — down your legs. Your skirt. The sliver of bare skin between your thigh-highs and the hem of the fabric.

And they stay there.

For a second too long.

You shift uncomfortably, crossing your legs. “What?”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He just exhales — slow, quiet, a sound that barely escapes his chest — and then he drops into the seat beside you.

But this time, he doesn’t sprawl like usual. Doesn’t lean in close to tease. Doesn’t say anything at all.

You peek at him.

His jaw is tight.

His fingers are tapping once, twice, then curling into his palm like he needs to stop.

You blink.

“You okay?”

Sunghoon turns slowly to look at you. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.

“You wore that on purpose.”

Your breath hitches. “Excuse me?”

“That skirt.” His voice is low. “Those socks.”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

You sit straighter. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The intensity in his voice makes you shiver.

“Sunghoon, I dress like this all the time.”

“Not like this.”

You stare at him.

He looks… wrecked.

His fingers twitch on his thigh. His knee bounces. His teeth grind against the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a war with himself.

“You’re acting crazy,” you whisper.

He laughs. But it’s not funny. It’s hollow. Pained.

“Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

You feel your cheeks go hot.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t,” he snaps. Then softer, more raw: “That’s the worst part.”

You blink, startled.

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice comes quieter now, not directed at you — more like a confession to the floor.

“I’ve spent months trying not to touch you. Not to lose it. I thought it was funny at first — teasing the nerd. Getting a reaction. Watching you get all shy and breathless.”

Your throat tightens.

“But then I started wondering what your lips tasted like. Wondering if you’d cry if I kissed you. Wondering if you’d let me ruin you if I was just a little nicer.”

You don’t move.

“I’d close my eyes and see you. Skirts riding up. Little notes with hearts. The way you lick your gloss off when you’re thinking.”

He laughs again — a sharp, miserable thing.

“I thought I was just horny. I thought it would pass.”

You swallow. “And did it?”

He looks at you.

And the look in his eyes answers the question before he even speaks.

“No.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m obsessed with you,” he says softly. “I think about you all the time. In class. In the shower. In my fucking sleep. I can’t stop.”

You feel like the world has tilted.

“I didn’t mean to make you—”

He cuts you off, sharp. “Don’t apologize.”

Silence settles between you like ash.

You’re not sure what to do. What to say. You’re still the shy girl. Still inexperienced. Still figuring out what it means when someone looks at you like they want to set the world on fire just to keep you warm.

And Sunghoon?

He’s not teasing anymore.

He’s unraveling.

“You should go,” he mutters suddenly, standing too fast. “Before I do something I won’t come back from.”

“Like what?”

He looks down at you.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — he looks scared.

“Like fall in love with you.”

_________

It starts with silence.

You don’t see him for two days.

Not in the hallway. Not in class. Not even during free period when he usually appears behind you like a bad idea dressed in perfect skin.

Just—nothing.

At first, you tell yourself it’s a relief.

You can finally think straight. Finally read without blushing. Finally open your locker without wondering if something’s missing — or added. You tell yourself it’s better this way. Clean. Quiet.

You almost believe it.

Until the third day.

⸻

Thursday. Late afternoon.

You’re walking down the old north stairwell — the one behind the drama wing, tucked between forgotten bulletin boards and scratched-up banisters. You only ever use it when you want to avoid crowds. It’s usually silent. Deserted.

Today, it isn’t.

Because at the bottom of the landing — leaning against the railing like he’s been waiting for hours — is Sunghoon.

He doesn’t look smug.

He looks like he hasn’t slept.

Hair a mess. Tie loose. One hand in his pocket, the other gripping the stair rail like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this hallway.

Your stomach flips.

You slow down. Carefully. Eyes locked on his.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you say, trying to keep your voice level.

His jaw clenches. “I had to.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

You descend the last few steps — slow, cautious. The moment you reach the bottom, he straightens up.

And then — very quietly — he says:

“You wore those socks again.”

Your breath catches.

He takes a step toward you. Then another.

You don’t move. Can’t.

“They drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs.

Your back hits the wall. He’s close now. Not touching you, but there — his heat pressing into your space, eyes low and dark and dangerous in a way that isn’t scary, but devastating.

“I asked myself why you’d wear them again,” he says, tilting his head. “If you meant to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you?” His voice drops to a whisper. “Didn’t you want me to lose control a little?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He leans in.

“You think I don’t notice every little thing about you? The way your thighs squeeze when I sit too close. The way you flinch when I say something dirty but never really tell me to stop.”

Your legs tremble.

“I don’t mean to—”

“Yes, you do.” His voice is low and raw. “And that’s what kills me. Because I want to ruin you so badly it hurts. But I know you’re not ready.”

His fingers lift. Hover. They don’t touch you. Just trace the air beside your cheek like he’s memorizing your shape.

“But you will be,” he whispers. “Soon.”

You shiver.

“You want to know what I did when you left the library the other day?”

Your eyes dart up to his.

He smiles — soft, broken, almost bitter.

“I went home and lost my mind.”

You swallow.

“I kept thinking about how your skirt slid up when you sat down. How the top of your sock curled right above your thigh like a fucking invitation.”

He’s breathing heavier now, close enough that your lashes flutter with each exhale.

“I locked my door,” he says. “Tore my belt open. And I came so hard thinking about the way you looked at me when I said I was in love with you.”

You gasp.

He grins — slow, dangerous.

“You thought I was lying?”

You can’t speak.

“You think this is just lust?” He laughs — dark and quiet. “No, baby. Lust would’ve faded. Lust wouldn’t make me go insane when another guy so much as looks at you.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“Sunghoon…”

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he breathes. “Trying to be patient. But every time I see you like this — pretty little skirt, those shy eyes, lips glossy like you want me to kiss you — I lose it a little more.”

His hand lifts again — and this time, he does touch you.

Just a finger under your chin.

He tilts your face up. Your pulse skitters.

“I’ve been waiting for the moment you ask me to stop.”

You don’t.

You just look up at him, trembling.

And he smiles like a man who’s finally found something holy.

“I knew it,” he whispers.

_________

You don’t go to class after that.

You sit in the old stairwell for ten full minutes after he leaves — heart in your throat, knees shaking, hand pressed against your chest like you can stop the echo of his voice still ringing in your bones.

“I came so hard thinking about the way you looked at me…”

“You think this is just lust?”

“I’ve been trying to be good.”

You can’t breathe.

Not because you’re scared — but because every single thing he said was real. And it’s the realness that messes you up.

You thought he just liked teasing. That maybe he thought you were hot in a condescending, look-at-the-nerd-with-nice-legs kind of way. But this? This was deeper. Unfiltered. Borderline feral.

And underneath all that hunger…

You saw something else.

Worship.

⸻

The next day

You sit at your desk in homeroom, trying to focus on your notes.

You fail.

Mostly because Sunghoon hasn’t looked at you once. Not even when he walked in. Not even when your pen fell to the floor and you reached down to grab it, thigh-highs on display like a death sentence.

He’s silent. Still.

Too still.

You glance over.

He’s doodling on his paper — eyes dark, jaw clenched, hair falling into his lashes. You almost think he doesn’t care anymore. Until he shifts just slightly and you see it.

His hands.

Fists.

Trembling.

He’s not calm. He’s trying to stay calm.

You bite your lip.

And then you do something that surprises even you.

You write something on your sticky note.

Just a few words. Neat handwriting. One line.

“What would you do if I said I don’t want you to be good anymore?”

You slide it across the desk.

He reads it.

Still doesn’t look at you.

But his chest moves — sharp and sudden, like someone just punched the air out of him.

You wait.

One beat. Two.

Then he writes something back and slides it to you.

“I’d ask if you meant it.”

You stare at the words.

Then — heart pounding — you scribble your reply:

“I don’t write things I don’t mean.”

When he reads that, he closes his eyes.

Like he’s praying.

Or begging himself not to get up and ruin you in the middle of class.

⸻

Later that day—

You’re in the hallway after seventh period when it happens.

You’re walking to your locker. Yunjin and Sunoo are behind you, bickering over something dumb — whether Sana from class C has extensions or not — when a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you behind the science building.

You gasp.

“Sunghoon?!”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just cages you against the wall, breath shaky, hands gripping the bricks beside your head.

“You really meant it?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I meant it.”

“Say you want me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

“I want you.”

He exhales — like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

“You have no idea what that does to me,” he whispers.

“Then tell me.”

He blinks.

You tilt your head. “You act like I’m the only one losing my mind. But you’re the one jerking off to the way I looked at you. You’re the one memorizing my skirts. You’re the one quoting my fake smut like it’s a Bible.”

He lets out a short laugh — half turned on, half stunned.

You step closer.

Braver now. Still nervous, still innocent, but not fragile.

“I’m not as clueless as you think,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know you liked me that much.”

He stares at you. Really stares.

And then he says it.

The one thing that makes your entire body flush with heat and something dangerously close to affection.

“I’ve liked you since the day you corrected the teacher and didn’t even realize you were being a show-off.”

Your lips part.

Sunghoon leans in.

“Since the day you wore that tight black sweater and glared at me for calling you ’Professor Tits.’”

You choke.

“And every day since,” he breathes. “Even the days I hated myself for it.”

Silence.

You meet his eyes.

There’s a weight to them now. Not just lust. Not just teasing.

Longing.

You don’t kiss him.

Not yet.

But you step close enough that your chest brushes his — that he feels the way you tremble.

“Then stop hating yourself,” you say quietly.

“Because I’m starting to think I’ve liked you this whole time too.”

_______

It’s past sunset when it happens.

The campus library is nearly empty — just the buzz of overhead lights and the soft click of a librarian’s keyboard echoing in the silence. You sit alone in your usual corner, tucked beneath the frosted glass window, your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your book.

You’re not reading it.

You haven’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

Your heart’s too loud.

Because you know he’s coming.

You texted him two words: “Come here.”

And he answered with only one: “Okay.”

You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’t plan it. But now you’re sitting in the spot where he first called you “Professor,” wearing that same gloss on your lips and a soft black cardigan that buttons at the top and opens just enough at the bottom to tease the shape of your skirt.

You hear the footsteps before you see him.

Sharp. Measured. Deliberate.

And then Sunghoon rounds the corner — all long legs and loose sleeves and unreadable eyes. His hair is still messy. His tie is gone. His mouth is set in a line that betrays none of the fire you saw in him before.

He stops in front of your table.

Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak.

You stare up at him.

The silence feels like it stretches forever.

Then you ask, barely a whisper:

“…Are you going to kiss me?”

His jaw ticks.

“I shouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just walks around the table. Slowly. Carefully. Like a hunter circling prey he doesn’t want to startle.

You turn in your chair to face him.

Your knees touch his thighs.

Your breath trembles.

Sunghoon lowers to his knees in front of you — not teasing, not dramatic. Just soft. Grounded. Like he’s doing something sacred.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

His fingers come up — tentative — and hover near your cheek, barely brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You lean into it.

That’s all he needs.

He leans in slowly, one hand still cradling your jaw, the other braced on your thigh like an anchor.

And when he kisses you — finally, finally — it’s nothing like what you expected.

It’s not wild. Not fast. Not filthy.

It’s gentle.

His lips press to yours like a secret. Like a question. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he kisses too hard.

You melt.

Your hands curl into his sleeves, your mouth parting instinctively. He doesn’t take advantage. He just stays there — lips soft, breath warm, fingers trembling slightly against your jaw like he can’t believe he’s allowed to do this.

He pulls back. Just enough to speak.

His voice breaks.

“…Been dreaming of that.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper.

He lets out a breathless laugh. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“Baby, if I touch you the way I want to—”

You lean in.

“Then touch me.”

He exhales — like he’s been waiting for that.

________

His breath is already hot against your cheek when you whisper it—

“Then touch me.”

It breaks him.

Sunghoon’s hand trembles where it rests on your thigh, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to grab, to grip, to mark. His other hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. You’re still sitting in the library chair, but he’s on his knees between your legs now, eye-level with your mouth, and something about the position—him below you, both of you breathless—makes your stomach twist.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispers.

“I do.”

His eyes search yours.

Still waiting for you to back out. Still waiting for this to be a dream.

And then you part your lips, slowly, dragging your tongue over your gloss and whisper:

“Touch me like you dream about it.”

His head drops—chin to chest, exhale rough and ragged, like he’s been holding it in for months. You feel his breath on your thigh and shiver.

When he looks up again, his eyes are gone—glassy, dark, the pupils blown wide with something between reverence and hunger.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder now, no more hesitation.

His mouth devours yours, warm and slick and open, tongue stroking past your lips in a desperate, wet slide. His hand tightens on your thigh—really grabs now, fingers spreading wide, pulling your leg apart so he can fit closer between them.

You gasp into his mouth.

That sound—your sharp, high breath—makes him groan, low and filthy in the back of his throat like he’s starving.

“Keep making that noise,” he pants against your lips. “I swear to God—”

He kisses you again—sloppier this time, breath hotter, grip firmer.

Your fingers are buried in his hair now, tugging. He moans into your mouth when you do—moans, like it does something to him, like he likes it messy, likes being grabbed, needed.

“You’re so soft,” he breathes, kissing down your cheek, your jaw. “So fucking soft, baby. I can’t think when I’m near you.”

You whimper when he kisses under your ear, and his hand immediately slides up your thigh in response, like a reward.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You try to muffle the sound. He doesn’t let you.

His hand grabs your chin, not rough, but firm—tilting your face so you’re looking right into his eyes.

“I want to hear what I do to you,” he whispers.

You’re panting now, chest rising and falling fast. He can see it—the way your cardigan pulls at the buttons with every breath, how your thighs twitch under his grip. He watches you fall apart like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Then he leans in—presses a kiss just above your collarbone, lips lingering there, breathing you in.

“You smell like fucking vanilla and library pages,” he groans.

You laugh breathlessly. “That’s not a real—”

“Yes it is.” He kisses you again. “It’s you. It’s driving me insane.”

His hand slides higher—over your skirt, thumb dragging across the top of your thigh-high sock. He’s still on his knees. Still between your legs. Still gripping the edge of your chair like if he lets go, he’ll do something unholy.

“Can I?” he asks. “Can I touch you here?”

You nod—shaky, unsure—but your hips shift forward on their own, and his jaw drops.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, voice breaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He palms your thigh slowly, dragging his hand up until it brushes under the hem of your skirt, and he moans—visibly, eyes fluttering shut like your skin hurts to touch.

“You’re so warm,” he pants. “So fucking warm and perfect—how are you real?”

You gasp when he mouths at your neck again, lips dragging down until he finds your pulse—and sucks. Not hard enough to mark. Not yet. But the intent is there.

You clench around nothing.

He pulls back, breathing hard now.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

His eyes find yours again—glassy, red at the corners, pupils massive, breath completely gone.

“I’ve never wanted anything like I want you,” he admits. “Not once. Not ever.”

_________

You’re not sure who breathes louder—him or you.

But your thighs are trembling.

And his hands haven’t even done what they’re desperate to do yet.

Still kneeling, Sunghoon stares up at you like he’s praying to something. His hair’s falling into his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen and damp from how hard he kissed you. And then there’s his eyes—those glazed-over, black-hole pupils swallowing the soft brown whole.

“I need to see you,” he whispers. “Right fucking now.”

Your breath skips. “What—what do you—”

His hands slide under your skirt.

No warning this time. No hesitation.

And when his fingers meet the soft cotton of your panties, he groans. Loudly.

“Fuck, baby—”

You arch.

He hasn’t even touched you properly yet. Just his palm over your underwear. But he feels everything—the heat, the softness, the way you twitch under him.

He leans forward and moans into your thigh.

“You’re so wet, and I’ve barely even done anything. You’re shaking for me already?” His voice cracks, trembling at the edge of his restraint. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You gasp when he presses his whole hand against your pussy through the fabric—fingers spread, applying pressure like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

His eyes roll back slightly. He bites his lip.

“Ohhh, my God—” he growls. “I’ve thought about this. Every. Fucking. Night.”

You can barely breathe. Your head tips back against the chair, legs falling wider apart without you realizing, and he notices.

“Oh my fucking god, baby,” he groans, voice desperate. “You’re opening up for me.”

You try to speak—say something smart, something sexy—but then his thumb rubs you in a slow, firm circle over your panties and you gasp, loud and sharp, legs jerking.

“There she is,” he pants. “That’s my girl.”

You whimper.

His hand flexes—his other one gripping your thigh, thumb dragging over the skin where your sock ends like he’s about to lose it over the lace trim alone.

“I’m not gonna finger you yet,” he mutters. “Not here. Not until I can take my time. You deserve more than two fingers in a library.”

You moan softly.

“But I’m gonna get you close, baby. I’m gonna make you fucking drip for me.”

He presses harder.

You’re soaking through your panties now—you know it, because you feel it, and from the way his jaw drops when he cups you again?

He feels it too.

“Jesus fuck,” he whispers. “You’re soaked. Fuck, fuck—you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You’re writhing now.

Tiny, helpless gasps leave your mouth with every motion—your eyes fluttering, your head rolling slightly to the side, hands gripping the armrests of the chair like they’re the only things keeping you from floating away.

And then he leans up.

Still between your legs. Still palming your pussy with one hand. But now he brings his mouth to your ear and whispers:

“Do you want me to grind on you, baby? You want me to fuck against your pretty little panties like a pathetic virgin?”

You moan—sharp, high, helpless.

And that destroys him.

He practically growls. “Yeah? That get you off? You want to feel how fucking hard I am just from watching you squirm?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—please—Sunghoon—”

He stands.

His hands go to his belt.

You watch—frozen—as he undoes it fast, the click of metal loud and vulgar in the quiet library. Then he’s shoving his pants down just enough, groaning softly when the pressure eases, and—

Fuck.

He’s huge.

Thick. Red at the tip. Leaking.

You choke.

He strokes himself once—twice—then looks at you like he’s about to eat you alive.

“Pull your panties to the side.”

Your hands shake.

“Let me see you,” he adds, quieter. “Just a little. Please.”

And the “please” wrecks you.

You do it.

Panties tugged gently aside, your thighs trembling, your whole body flushed and aching. You can’t look him in the eye.

But he can’t look anywhere else.

“Oh, my fucking god.”

He strokes himself slowly, lining up with your folds—not pushing in, just grinding against you, head dragging up your slit as he holds your hips steady with both hands.

You cry out.

He moans—deep and raw—like the sound of you is something holy.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s what you do to me. You made me this hard. You’re gonna make me come just from fucking against your soaked little cunt.”

You grip the chair tighter, eyes wide, mouth open—because he’s grinding now, slow and filthy, his cock sliding up and down your folds, teasing your clit every pass, his head catching just slightly on your entrance each time he rocks forward.

You’re not even being fucked.

But it feels like it.

Every time his tip drags up your clit, you shake. Your moans are getting louder—higher—your body twitching beneath him.

“You gonna come like this?” he growls. “You gonna come just from me humping your little pussy like a fucking pervert?”

You nod desperately.

And then he moans, forehead pressed to yours, sweat building on his temples.

“I’m gonna make you come, baby,” he pants. “And then I’m gonna ruin you for real.”

_________

Sunghoon’s hips are grinding into you now—slow, desperate thrusts that drag the thick head of his cock up and down your soaked folds, catching on your clit with every pass. The friction is filthy—wet and hot and perfect, the head of his cock gliding against your slickness like he was meant to be there.

And the sounds he makes?

Devastating.

Every rock of his hips earns a moan—guttural, shattered, like he’s falling apart just from being this close to you.

“You feel that?” he pants against your ear. “You feel how hard I am for you, baby?”

You nod frantically, fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls. “I’m not even inside you and you’re dripping—Jesus, you’re making a mess.”

You are.

The fabric of your panties is soaked, your thighs sticky, your whole body trembling like you’re about to break.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m gonna come just from rubbing against you—oh my god, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and erratic.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop—”

His thrusts get faster, more frantic.

Each grind rubs right over your clit, dragging the swollen head of his cock across the sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pressure. You’re whining now—sharp, high sounds that make his rhythm stutter.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you. Let me fucking hear you—”

You moan louder.

And his whole body jerks.

“Oh my god, I’m so fucking close—”

You are too.

Your hips twitch against his, meeting each thrust, chasing the friction that’s making your stomach coil tighter and tighter.

“Come for me,” he gasps. “Come on my cock, baby. Please—please, I need to feel it.”

You cry out.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—sharp, blinding, a full-body tremble that makes your legs lock around his waist, your back arch, your nails dig into his skin.

“Ohhh fuck—baby—yes, that’s it—fuck, fuck—”

He loses it.

His hips jerk once, twice—and then he moans, loudly, voice wrecked as he comes. Hard. The hot, wet pulse of it spilling against your soaked folds as he ruts through it like he can’t stand to stop.

His whole body shakes.

His mouth is open, eyes squeezed shut, breath shattered as he gasps through it.

“Holy fuck,” he moans. “You just made me come so fucking hard—fuck, baby—”

You hold him.

And he doesn’t pull away.

⸻

The Aftermath

You’re both still trembling.

His head is buried in your neck, his breath sticky against your skin, his hands gripping the back of your chair like if he lets go, he’ll fall to pieces. Your skirt is hiked up. His pants are open. You’re sticky. Sweaty. Spent.

And neither of you moves.

For a long, breathless moment, it’s just… quiet.

Then, slowly, Sunghoon exhales.

He lifts his head.

And when he looks at you?

His eyes are glassy.

Not just from pleasure. Not just from lust. But something else—something softer. Something terrifyingly tender.

He reaches up and brushes your hair from your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, breath catching.

He leans in—kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I’ve never,” he murmurs, “ever… felt anything like that.”

You bite your lip.

“I liked it,” you whisper.

He smiles, small and stunned.

Then he bends down and presses his forehead to your chest, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s never letting go.

“You’re mine now,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

You nod.

And you let him hold you.

Because in this moment—sweaty, messy, heart still pounding—you’ve never felt more wanted.

Or more safe.

_____

You don’t know how long you sit there with him.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Your legs still parted over his hips. The library’s overhead lights hum softly above you, casting a pale glow over his messy hair, his swollen mouth, the pink flush still dusting his cheekbones.

And for once—just once—he isn’t teasing. Isn’t cocky. Isn’t even speaking.

He’s holding.

He’s breathing you in.

As if this moment is something sacred.

You card your fingers through his hair, gentle and slow, and he sighs like it’s the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the air.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t let go.

You glance down and realize his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against your chest. And you swear—swear—he looks like a boy who just found peace for the first time.

Eventually, he murmurs into your skin:

“You make me feel like I don’t have to be the asshole anymore.”

Your heart clenches.

You press your lips to his forehead and whisper:

“You never were. You were just scared.”

He laughs softly. Choked. Like that truth finally freed him.

And you know, in that moment, whatever comes next—he’s yours.

And you’re his.

Not just in lust.

But in everything.

____________

i love me some pathetic YEARNING men 🙏🙏