#Had a bio quiz this week and i scored low

[rtwiinkle]

Night study session 💤💡

[tenderlyrenjun]

time out: the prequel

↦ summary: here it is, the beginning - not of your rivalry but of your fucking relationship (pun intended)

↦↦ includes: excessive use of commas, yelling (?), slight rich kid au, car sex/safe sex (!): dick sucking, fingering, little bit of a praise kink, and penetration; it’s kind of a soft fic, like tender

↦ hockey co-captain/architecture major!jeno x figure skater/bio major!reader

11,6k words (i am so sorry) | preview one, preview two | main part

if you are under 18 and you interact with this fic at all, I will block and report you

a/n: i think that this is going to be my last attempt at posting fics. if it doesn’t work out, if people don’t comment or don’t like this one, i really don’t know what else i can do except stop.

Hockey practice, tonight, ended on a pretty low note – for the entire team, yeah, but none more than their zealous co-captain, Lee Jeno, who left the locker rooms deaf to any worried remarks. ‘Are you okay?’ followed him pointlessly, because everyone already knew how he felt going into the rink.

If Jeno’s demeanor did not make it evident, Renjun, who accompanied Yangyang after a figure skating competition, gave a repeating throat slicing gesture, signaling not to test the guy’s patience. Captain Lee 2.0 (nicknamed per birth order) already had a rough week: physics exam Tuesday afternoon, a huge digital technology project due Wednesday morning, a series of advanced geometry proofs to study for next week’s pop quiz, etc. But he stayed up, regardless, chained to a desk in his apartment, ordering Postmates everyday because he had no time to cook, wanting solely to focus on understanding and creating new plays for the season, possibly more than his maths class (but his parents don’t see his grades, so it’s fine). It’s just … This is his first full season as captain (or co-captain as people will not let him forget), after having been asked by Mark during last school year’s bye week. And to commemorate the promotion, he really, really wants to break the team’s losing streak. It has been going on for a few years, since the last official playmaker joined the NHL in North America. You know, good for him, hope he’s happy and healthy, Jeno guessed, shrugging begrudgingly, but there has been no obvious starting point to rebuild the same success in the team’s current lineup. Playmakers do not just drop into existence! People work insanely hard for that position – which is what Jeno tries to do. Not that it is particularly working out at the moment.

The playmaker is fast, super-fast, like Quicksilver fast, but Sungchan, their tallest player, can lap him twice in less than a minute. The playmaker keeps his eye out for openings on the ice, usually scoring more assists than goals, but Mark, his other half and co-captain, when he is on the ice, not in line, stands and observes during the game before making any moves, which typically lead into assists anyways – Mark actually got an award in high school, twice, for most assists in the league, and this season looks like he may be on track for the same thing. The only thing Jeno has in common with any playmaker is the forward position, the most advantageous position to score, at least, more than defence or goalie. Although, Haechan pulled a Hextall during one of the initiation practices, and the memory will keep him in the goalie spot, assuming that he can recreate it in an actual game. But, despite all the reverence, each player still has areas to improve upon. Jeno does not want to be in a position where all the “good” players are benched, or where, God forbid, someone gets too injured and the entire team has to forfeit a win because Jeno did not invest time into every. single. member.

For this exact reason, Yangyang, their newest member, lacking any real prior skill (also a weak link at the moment), was assigned 6AM solo drill practices. Okay, well, not assigned per se – Mark told Jeno that he cannot do that, or film their practices, because he gets a bit … too obsessed. But once Jeno found out that Yangyang started going the extra mile, it felt like a loophole, and he started giving out more guidance, a.k.a. specific drills that he knows would help Yangyang not only get in a good practice but also improve his skill. Jeno can simply pray that someone will eventually become available to practice a one-on-one arch backchecking – he would do it, but he has an 8AM, and the drill would make him skip class. Hockey is important to him, just not as vital as his architecture degree (the main thing he is in college for … although, he cannot blame anyone if they assumed he planned on going pro). Jeno has enough self-control to recognize when not to play – doesn’t mean he likes it though. And unfortunately, Yangyang is not the only … hurdle this year. Haechan, who inherited his number (66) from a graduating senior last year and typically plays defence, has not fared as well as his namesake, or older brother, with the new plays lately. But, considering the irreplicable (but hopefully replicable) goalie shot, Jeno keeps Haechan, on the ice, opposite Winwin – both as goalies, a position that Haechan has not held since little league. And Sungchan, the team’s most recent high school graduate, and former varsity star player, like Mark (!) … Actually, don’t get Jeno started on Sungchan.

The maknae is friends, a dongsaeng to, his mortal enemy.

Alright, hardly a mortal enemy, but Jeno does not consider you one of the friendliest people. You are too argumentative against him, branding your name in a golden calligraphy at the forefront of his hippocampus, drawn like the Illuminated Manuscript. Literally anyone would debate that the two of you are symmetrical, but the last year or two has shown that two sides of the same coin describes your relationship way better – you both obsess over your individual sports (figure skating and ice hockey, respectively), but where Jeno dedicates himself to the rink, you hog it, or, at least, that is how he sees it. You see him exactly as he sees you – passion tainted by frustration, framed as hatred. And it’s not like people haven’t pointed it out the similarities; Jeno believes Renjun’s exact words were, ‘just fuck and get it over with’ (he doesn’t know if Renjun was serious or not). And if he is not mistaken, your coach encouraged you to ‘make nice’. You are the one who cannot get through the irritation, the screaming matches, the – the dry mouth and headaches an-and feeling flushed before, during, or after an argument. And him, too. You always leave, always leave him staring, jaw clenched tightly, eyebrows frozen deeply into his face.

In fact, to really further his perspective (that the problem is you), Jeno was nice, earlier in the day, before practice; he wanted to be nice, to you.

Jeno was heading into practice sooner than the others, as he usually does (Mark arrives early too, a couple minutes after Jeno, to set up the rink and go over practice goals), but this time Sungchan texted him, asking for a ride, delaying Jeno’s typical entrance). Their youngest member generally catches a ride from you, which Jeno absolutely abhors because it means that he has to see you, but Sungchan’s license is still on the way and he does not have a car at the moment (all ice teams use an off-campus rink, the one on Anam, and Jeno seems to schedule practice for the most inconvenient times, a.k.a. all the damn time). But, like, half a minute before Jeno got to Sungchan’s dorm – literally as he turned into the carpark – the giant Bambi dude texted that he had a friend emergency at a different dorm, not even a dorm! An apartment building. The SoHo Apartments, where you live.

How Sungchan got there, Jeno will never know, yet he still went. Jeno still went, despite knowing that there was a near 100% chance of running into you. He wanted to assume that Sungchan was simply being a fiercely loyal friend, hopefully to that one upperclassman in the med school, Jungwoo (Jeno only knows about him because Jaemin mentioned him in passing), but no! Sungchan sauntered out of the building, you on his arm wearing loose black pants and a number 27 jersey – probably one of Sungchan’s backups, which is technically against the rules (!). Players are not allowed to give out their jerseys … during game season. Off season is fine, but not during. It is the only rule Mark agreed to so quickly, solely because it is practical. They are all college students, and only have so much free time, especially with the way Jeno wants to get everyone in shape; therefore, laundry days are limited, meaning that their jerseys are limited.

So, Jeno totally protested! … Silently, of course – biting his lip, taking out his anger via extra tight grip on the steering wheel, just left of the horn, almost sounding the alarm. Like, fucking hell, if his day could get any worse, he thought.

Except, apparently, you got dumped, or stood up, or whatever – he was not particularly paying attention – before heading out to some rare house party around Anam. But, like, see; This is why Jeno cannot stand your personality (overbearing priss): you are still going to that party, braving face, even though something devastating happened. So fucking concerned with public appearances, and for what? People date the wrong person! It happens! Your ego cannot be that ginormous. And come to think of it, he has never even seen you alone. You are always with someone: your coach, another skater; Sungchan; some guy who you probably met on Tinder, etc. He has never even seen you standing awkwardly in line at the on-campus coffee place between classes, staring at your phone just to look busy – not that he does it … often. Sometimes he will carry a playbook or annotate his geometry notes while waiting.

Still, Jeno let it slide (not without an eyeroll thought); he let all of it slide, saying nothing, just to get to practice faster, and get you out of his backseat faster. He glanced at you in the rear-view mirror a couple of times, briefly, during the short trip, just to verify that you are, in fact, upset, or, at least, displaying some human emotion other than the contempt he has become accustomed to over the last two years. And you were, kinda sad. So, if his gazes started to soften, that was between him and God. Although, to really keep up his appearance, he made you walk to the party from the rink, claiming that it is literally a less-than-ten-minute walk and the sun had not even set yet, much to your disdain. Sungchan protested for you, obviously caught in the middle like a child of divorce, but you relented, knowing, along with Jeno, that you cannot really complain because he did give you a ride, when he was in a position to abandon you on the side of the road. You only took, maybe, three steps before Sungchan ran after you, claiming that practice did not start for another half hour at least, once again reversing the roles and leaving Jeno alone.

Honestly, Jeno thinks as he sits in his car, head pressed against the steering wheel, a once-again-empty carpark in front of him, he feels abandoned. Stupid Mark and ending the Cross Fire drills early. Just because “it’s a Saturday night” and “Everyone deserves a time to rest”. Hockey is the rest! That is his stress relief!

Ugh!

Jeno considers going back inside for some solo practices – he could even try the ones that he assigned Yangyang, just to make sure those drills are effective for any skill level, as a precaution, on the off-chance that someone else starts solo practicing as well (the team really needs them; it’s just hard because everyone had different majors and other commitments). But Jeno recently showered and changed into his favorite shirt – the sweater-like one with thick black stripes and white stripes, and skinny black and purple stripes across the white stripes. He paired it with some black joggers and silver accessories, a chain connecting a belt loop to his wallet. The outfit is cozy enough for him to fall asleep in, so he could, alternatively, head home for the evening. But his apartment acts like a revolving door for both him and his roommate, Jaemin, his earliest childhood friend from all the way back in elementary school (along with Haechan, but he lives on-campus still). Jaemin inconveniently joined a study group for the MEET (medicine major entrance exam) though, hence why there is no number 42 (Jaemin’s jersey number) on SNU’s current hockey lineup. He said something about the sport being too time consuming for his major, and he prefers to sleep, if he gets the chance. Unfortunately, Jeno needs his emotional support attachment doll right now – to either vent or to spot him at the gym, the one on-campus is open 24-hours, mostly for the Olympian athletes but they have a healthier sleep schedule, so they use it at normal functioning people hours (a.k.a. daytime). Jeno can only really lean on Jaemin right now, because Renjun (a friend from high school; the latest addition to their friend group) is utterly obsessed with some student in Kun’s class; Mark is eternally busy with a thousand other commitments; going to Sungchan seems like a sort of treason – to what? To whom? Against himself? Jeno cannot answer for certain. And so he bangs his head on the steering wheel center (thank God that he inadvertently had the foresight to not turn on the ignition yet, otherwise the carpark would basically hear one elongated, yet comical, alarm scream). Maybe he just needs to befriend more people, particularly people outside his team and (high school) graduating cohort. Well, he received the foresight to learn about the party on Anam, so he could make friends there, and being semi-popular, he might already know a person or two there (besides you, of course), allowing himself to ease into the setting more gracefully.

Jeno groans again, hitting his head successively on the horn a few times. Jaemin did tell him to go out more. But, Jeno reminds himself, slowly sitting up, tilting his head to the side, he is, technically, outside right now. He just … would not be as alone if he went to the party, a party. Then, he groans again, erecting his spine against the chair, hair thumping on the headrest. He doesn’t even know why he debates himself. People must be meeting up right now – literally anywhere other than a stupid house party! No one even throws house parties! And in a city that, essentially, never sleeps? In Seoul? Yeah, right. Plus, it is the weekend, party time!

Jeno digs through his pants until finding his phone. It feels colder than the ice rink, even the bright, 96%-charged screen cannot warm his hands, or the car. First, he opens Twitter, scrolling through his main account with random follows, but his DMs, mentions, and timeline suggest something else going on. Everyone is either coupled up, depressingly pining, or just staying in. It forces him to close the app without bothering to switch accounts (the other would tell the same story, only unfiltered), a deep sigh erupting from his diaphragm, through his nose. He tries Instagram next, tapping through stories, public and private, like rejections on Tinder – not that he has it. Jeno refuses to download the stupid app, no matter what Mark’s equally stupid intro psych class says (Mark isn’t even a psych major!). But all his friends seem to be eating out, doing karaoke, studying, etc., in small groups. Like, Jeno knows that house parties are usually saved for special occasions: moving into a new place, national holiday celebrations, Chuseok, etc., but it offers more control than, like, some random 1-hour coffee thing. And all the clubbing invites are such a turn off because it sounds so sweaty, and, again, he just took a shower. Ugh, all the people who come to mind are diving into Seoul’s night life. Annoying.

Jeno grumbles something incoherently and does not have the faintest idea what the sound could, should, or would have been. Practice was absolute hell on his voice, yelling over skates scratching new ice chips to the surface and carbon fiber sticks hitting steel posts. He rubs his neck between his thumb and index finger, rolling his head around his shoulders. Yanno, alcohol is in medicine, so, he thinks hesitantly, a bottle of soju will help.  (no, it won’t).

Hongjoong’s entire party cheers for Jeno when he walks through the foyer, showing off a bottle of sansachun like the trophy he wants so bad, in one hand, above his head, and a 12-pack box of soju by his thigh in the other hand. Jeno inhales shakily, breath hitching at his thin smile, ego slightly boosted but … disappointing. And after the applause dies down, he tries to find comfort in something familiar, looking for anyone recognizable. But everyone turned around just as quickly as they looked up. Well, everyone except you. Your outfit is different from earlier – a new, black skirt, a short skirt, not covering your legs; a tight, quarter-sleeved crop top; and a pair of maroon Converse, making him realize how much you rely on ice skates to elevate you (and your narcissism). He only spotted you first, in the crowd, because you were part of the scarce few facing him and you rolled your eyes to Yeeun beside you, most likely about him, muttering snidely (as expected of a shrew), but he could not discern it, as you said it into your red solo cup. And since Yeeun is a friend to the both of you, Jeno takes a step to defend himself, his socks slipping on the glazed wooden floor.

Juyeon, a basketball player and fellow winter sports mate, thankfully catches Jeno by the arm.

“Hey, man,” Juyeon waves, slowly releasing. He moves two hands between them, gesturing to take the alcohol into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Jeno comments, voice low and strained, “again.” He rubs his Adam’s apple into his larynx, for some relief on his vocal cords. The motion generates a yawn, which does release some tension, just not enough, so he gives it one more go, then points at a near by table with bright neon colors. “What is all that for?”

Juyeon glances over his shoulder. Hongjoong, ever the art major, displayed pretty glowsticks, uncracked right now, alongside jelly bracelets and gel pens under a crumpled piece of construction paper too far away for either blind boy to read without their glasses. “Uhh,” he hesitates, then snaps his fingers loudly, a few people (you included) looking around for the source of the sound. You accidentally make eye contact with Jeno and glare at him, to which he rolls his eyes at. He almost returns to Juyeon when he catches sight of the blue bracelet peeking out of your sleeve. “Those,” Juyeon interrupts, “are for some game.” He lifts his wrist up, shifting all the bottles on his waist, to show off his own red bracelet. “You pick a color, and if someone steals it, you gotta do that action. Like, if Gahyeon stole mine, I’d have to give her a kiss.”

“On the lips?” Jeno asks for clarification. The rules seem vague.

Juyeon pauses and tilts his head to the side, squinting his eyes a bit. “No, I don’t think so. The party is based on consent.” Then he shakes his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to kissing her, but if I didn’t want to, I guess I’d just kiss her cheek or hand or do a body shot off her stomach again.”

“Again?” Jeno raises an eyebrow.

Juyeon playfully shoves him at the chest, shuffling the bottles as they lose balance on his hip. He almost loses them to the floor, so he moves them into the kitchen while Jeno is still giggling. Then, after Juyeon leaves a lonely hockey player, Jeno walks around to the table with all the stuff on it and reads the note that neither Juyeon nor he could see from six feet away, without their glasses:

Entrance fee: write your name on a slip and place it in a jar! Two names will be called every hour for 7 Minutes in Heaven. The only rule (besides be a decent human being) is don’t fuck in my closet. Thanks.

He scribbles his name in a tiny font, hoping that if he writes illegibly, then Hongjoong would not be able to read it out loud in front of everyone. There are also about a hundred names, give or take a few, so realistically, he has, like, no chance of actually being called, hence why he is more inclined to drop his name in the jar than, say, the Swear Jar that Haechan installed at practice. Still though, he flicks it in before reading the list of acts associated with each jelly bracelet color:

Pick up one jelly bracelet to play!

Red – a kiss

Pink – flashing (a body part)

Yellow – a hug

Green – oral

Blue – spanking

Purple – a hickey

Black – sex

Rules:

Steal someone’s bracelet to “get” their prize.

If you don’t want to give them your prize, then stand on a table and make out with your hand for 30 seconds, make sure the people are watching.

You gotta be clean to play. All rule breakers will be immediately blacklisted from any future activities.

Jeno thumbs at a black jelly braclet, pondering that last sentence.

During second semester freshman year, there was a chlamydia outbreak in one of the dorms. Basically the entire floor got it. So, like, totally fair statement. Especially since Jaemin caught, too, and was majorly pissed about the antibiotics – doxycycline, which he ended up forgetting to take a dose of, twice, and gave him a raging headache right before a stats exam. Probably another reason why Jaemin is taking a break from the dating scene (in addition to the biochem incident). Jeno remembers that he almost mistook one of the pills for mint gum until Jaemin quite literally smacked it out of his hand, then ate it off the floor (five second rule). And maybe he has a thing for spanking because he chooses a blue bracelet as well.

Slowly, Jeno starts adjusting to the party, his fingers no longer twitching at his phone. He puts his hands above his hips, thinking back to what he was going to do before Juyeon explained the party’s general rules. It looks like other people are just talking, scrolling through Tinder, mixing drinks – being casual. Rooms overflow with people leaning on doorframes, trying to relax vertically since all the horizontal places are taken – the couches, the floor pillows, the bedrooms (probably). Jeno scans his eyes further into the living, searching for someone familiar, then he spots you and Yeeun. Well, you first. He noticed that he always does this: sees you before you see him, and it turns into this whole thing.

You roll your eyes after catching him in the act and put a hand on Yeeun’s arm, loudly whispering as Jeno walks over, “I’m going to talk to Noze. The company around her might be more …” you trail off, intentionally looking Jeno up and down while Yeeun stares at you expectantly, oblivious to his presence. “Tolerable. Bye.”

Yeeun waves you goodbye as well, frowning, lines creasing between her eyebrows, until she spots the your object of … affection. “Oh, hey,” she greets him, a quick kiss on the cheek like a cool aunt, as he leans down to meet her. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How’d you even hear about the party?”

Jeno raises an eyebrow, gesturing to half the room. The population so clearly indicates that the party is not so exclusive. “It looks like half the engineering building heard about the party.” He also nods his head at the revolving door leading into the kitchen. But he knows what she means. Jeno is not the type to go out, much less the type to go to parties. He really only attends post-hockey celebrations or the rare team icebreakers that Mark plans; you know, stuff involving the other players. Jaemin occasionally invites him to a bottoms-up with his lab classmates, but Jeno never says yes to that. He doesn’t like the crowds or not knowing everyone. “There’s like a thousand people here.”

“Ha!” Yeeun laughs at his hyperbole, passing her poktanju to him. “No, it’s gotta be 40 to 50 at most, and you can thank Hongjoong’s roommate for that.” Jeno nods, agreeing, sounds like Seonghwa. “No, but!” Yeeun slaps Jeno’s arm.

“Ow!” Jeno steps back, rubbing his bicep. “You didn’t steal my bracelet; you can’t hit me.”

Yeeun rolls her eyes – he is getting that response a lot tonight. First, you in his own fucking car; then Haechan at practice; then Juyeon; and now his best noona (don’t tell his actual sister)? Wow.

“No, not that,” she says, staring him down, knitting her eyebrows at him, wiping her hand on her pants now, mock disgusted. “And gross by the way. You’re like my little brother.” She takes her drink back and downs another shot. “No, I meant that I thought you had practice tonight. You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing here.”

“I heard about it,” Jeno reinforces.

“You said that. Who’d you hear it from?”

“In passing,” Jeno shrugs. But Yeeun smacks him again, and harder, splashing her beer a bit on his sleeve. “Okay, okay. I heard it from Sungchan. Alright, damn.”

“The tall kid?”

“Eung,” Jeno confirms, voice low, distracted while he wipes his wrist drier. “Yeah, the new kid, number 27 on the hockey team.”

“Oh,” Yeeun says slowly, eyes wide, sipping her drink deeply. “But he’s not,” she hesitates, stuttering, “your dongsaeng, right?” They come to the same conclusion – that he shares yet another person with the one he hates most.

“No,” Jeno answers, “but he – Sungchan – is on my team,” he reinforces. And suddenly, he needs that medicinal shot of alcohol to treat his recurring symptoms in the form of a headache now. “So, I heard it from him. Whatever.” He looks above Yeeun’s head, which is not hard to do with the, like, 15-centimeter difference. “Where did Juyeon put the alcohol?”

Yeeun absentmindedly points to the left, her own drink in hand. “I think Hongjoong told him to put it on the island in the kitchen. You’ll see it when you get in there.” Jeno watches her wave at a girl with black hair, already knowing that she is about to leave him, but hey, this time, he has something to do: get alcohol. “Go –“ She pushes him toward the drinks. “– find yourself something to drink. I’ll meet up with you again later.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he waves her off, then hugs her and walks off.

Halfway before he even gets to the door, Jeno bumps his shoulder into yours, and yet another drink spills onto his favorite shirt.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” both of you whisper at each other, the anger radiating far enough to briefly turn some heads.

“Let me pass, Lee,” you bite, suddenly closed off in the narrow hallway; people standing against the opposite wall just talking to each other or behind you, waiting for the bathroom or another drink, or the next best thing.

You have the same look in your eyes as when Jeno first met you. It took a few more meetings, after that one, until he was able to name it: contempt, maybe even irritation, or disrespect. However, unlike now, he was unable to discern why he had been so deserving of your precious scorn; all he did was show up to practice! This time though, Jeno concedes that it was partially his fault. He was weaving between couples and trios, trying not to hit anyone on his way to alcohol; he barely had any in his system, to be so wobbly on his feet, like a drunkard, but he walked too close to the drywall and bounced off it, in an attempt to avoid two people making out, then he hit you right in the shoulder, your arm carrying a shot glass filled to the brim (you would get dinged in a chem lab, Jeno thinks, not that he has taken chemistry recently; he mostly listens to all the ways Jaemin kept failing the lab safety quiz). You spilled peach soju on his wrist and the edge of his shirt, forcing him to lift it enough to show off his sharp v-line, his transversus abdominis, that gets cut off by his pants tied above his waist, rather than at his waist – a tease, honestly.

Jeno’s arm jerks backward, responsively, to force some space away from everyone, mostly you, but your watch snagged on the fabric, pinching the draw string tightened around his hips, wrapping you closer the more that Jeno tries to detangle himself. He takes a step to the wall, shoulders alert, feeling for the rough material until he falls against it. Your waist slumps against his as he drags you with him, and you grumble, ugh, holding out a second while people pass behind you, pushing past you away from the kitchen. Jeno presses your hips down, your feet coming to the ground, his hands resting more on your butt than your lower back, almost like a trap. The hallway is too narrow for this many people, Jeno thinks, wishing that Hongjoong had the sense to either limit how many students could attend or limit Seonghwa’s invites. Although, he probably would not have been able to attend had any of those two events occurred. And his hands tighten with the thought, locking you between his arms. He can feel you stare at him, blocking out the crowd that he watches equally intently.

Once the hallway is empty (or, at least, emptier), you put a hand on Jeno’s pelvis, where your wrist is stuck, and another on his chest, then pump your arm to break free. It fails, the first time, so you use the momentum to crash on his body again and push yourself off. The loud sound creates an asymptotic barrier. On one side, you sigh a heavy relief, touching your bare wrist. On the other, Jeno pats himself down, touching his front muscles down to his belt, where your hands previously were. He almost mirrored your sigh, but then, he found a silicone bracelet, broken, in his shirt folds. It was easy to find, the red color contrasting against his stripes. He is surprised to find it at all, honestly, thumbing it against his long fingers.  You did not push him that hard, certainly not enough to give him, of all people, your bracelet. And it looks like he mistook your color, too; this one, even in the poorly illuminated hallway, is red, a kiss. Would you even give him that so easily?

Jeno looks up at you, from his hands, dangling the thin material delicately, and half-smirks, hoping that he won’t falter. “Looks like you owe me something.”

You roll your eyes. One more time, Jeno thinks, and your face will get stuck like that; you might even go blind. “Kiss my ass.”

“And here I thought you wanted to leave,” Jeno retorts. You suck in a breath, thinning your lips, releasing all the tension through your toes, tapping your heel-less shoes into the ground. He exhales oppositely, exaggeratingly, tone sharp. “You had the privilege of feeling my hands on your body for the last minute, and you still want more?” He whistles lowly and says, “Damn,” appreciatively.

“Just give me back my bracelet, ass.”

“And,” Jeno ignores your interjection, “if anyone knows about privilege, it’s you.”

“Ha-ha,” you assert blatantly, fists and arms tense at your sides, coming lower than your skirt. “At least I’m not a Daechi-dong, dong head,” you spit back. And he crinkles his nose at your attempt to call him a dick. “You’re the one who is barely captain because of nepotism. Or did you make everyone forget with your military drills?”

“Oh really?” Jeno nods his heads sarcastically. “Imagine being a top skater,” he taunts back, “because your coach gets paid to elevate you!”

“At least I am a top skater,” you seethe, purposefully quieting your voice as people start looking away. Your hiss comes out as if telling him to shut up, which he, obviously, takes offence to.

“I would never have guessed,” Jeno scoffs, continuing with a powerful voice. “Sounds like a lie. God knows you’ve never even been on the fucking ice.”

“Because you steal it every fucking day!” You point a finger at him. “What’s it like to constantly work toward playmaker and fail every time?”

“Funny, coming from someone who recently got demoted.”

You slap him.

Jeno stares at you incredulously, jaw clenched. His mouth feels sticky, dry, tongue weighing heavy and raw, and his throat feels hoarse all over again, more agitated now as his neck heats up, just from looking at you. And his voice had already been sore from practice, barely letting out few phrases to his friends. But with you, he becomes compelled to say everything. He opens his mouth to verbally strike back.

“Jeno!”

Hongjoong’s voice rings loud and clear at the end of the hallway. Everyone rotates toward the announcement. At the sight of the host squinting to better read the tiny handwriting, Jeno suddenly remembers the game he entered: 7 Minutes in Heaven. His body stiffens, straightening against the wall, stomach sucking in to pull further from you, though your hand comes to his forearm, dizzily, your body having been alarmed by the declaration.

Then, Hongjoong calls your name, too.

“Fuck,” you and Jeno whisper.

Hongjoong pushes Jeno into the closet first, followed by Chaeyoung pushing you, into Jeno’s arms. As soon as the door closes, you shove him against the opposite wall and tug the pull chain light switch on. Jeno blinks at the yellow glow, rubbing his eyes as a result of the brightness change. He looks around first, completely neglecting you so that the time goes faster. None of the clothes, he notices, belong to any party goer, because they are neatly hung, organized from red to indigo, beige fabrics on the end; who ever shed their jacket did so in Hongjoong’s equally tidy bedroom. Aside from the jackets, there is really nothing else, maybe a few boxes underneath an empty shelf, but naught to distract him from how hot the inside of this closet is.

Jeno looks you up and down again, eyes glossing over the outfit he already inspected so he stays on your face. You spun the moment you fell inside, looking away from him, jawline prominent as your lips tightened, frowning. “Nothing to say without an audience?” he asks bitterly, then laughs dryly.

“What more is there to say?” you comeback, quietly, defeated. He wonders if you mean it rhetorically, because … “You got the last word.” He meets your eye, leaning further on his right side. “This time.”

Jeno stands on his two feet, challenging you to a staring competition now, straight on. It is hard not to see every emotion written on your face; the lighting is not on your side. Something in your voice, too, has him on edge, like you have more to say. He opens his mouth to speak again, but you beat him to it, inhaling sharply and talking slowly:

“And you’re the one who likes the attention.”

“Yeah?” he scoffs. Ridiculous. “You were a soloist, –” He collaborates, to this day. “– and now you’re malicious to anyone and everyone, just because you have to work on a team.”

“Why do you think that happened in the first place?! I’m not the one who hogged the rink so much that none of the other skating teams could practice!” You put your hand on your mouth, trying to physically calm yourself down. The next words out of your mouth come in a whisper, “I’m not the one who started shouting during a party. Couldn’t keep the hatred in, even for a second?”

Jeno takes a step toward you, an instinctive comforting move that he would do for his friends without a thought. The closet seemed so much smaller on the outside and so cold where he stands. How are you still six feet away? Does anger heat up your side? Would anything change if he treads nearer? Jeno tests the waters, adding another step toward you – one foot down, four to go. And you take note of him; he is being too obvious, but you say nothing. Jeno cannot read you very well while you are far away, so when he finally reaches you, when he leans over you, all intimidation vacant from his eyes, you narrow your gaze, less like a glare, he thinks, more … curious, scrutinizing. Anyone outside might have thought that you offended him, or, maybe even, vice versa, especially as he presses you against the wall, your head slowly knocking into the wall. His hand comes to your waist again, and you stutter a breath, making him falter as well, his hand slipping on your ass.

“Can I kiss you?” Jeno asks, though he breathes heatedly, quietly.

Your eyes stumble to his nose, and next his lips, taking in the downward bent – his gaze has never left your eyes though, permanently glued to how you perceive, anticipating your answer, because, after all, he did possess your red bracelet.

“For a,” you start, then gradually speed up, “Daechi-dong, you sure are slow.” You bring him in for a kiss, swiping his pink bottom lip to undermine his stature. His jaw drops open and his knees weaken, allowing you to push him against the wall, pressing your tongue on the center of his, saliva tasting void of alcohol.  You put an arm on the wall, caging him into the closet, like an anime love interest. “This changes nothing, by the way,” you inform him, as he cradles your hips. “I’m still me, even if I’m kissing you.”

“Obviously.” Jeno rolls his eyes. He rolls your head against the wall, knotting the crown of your hair in the process, reversing your positions. Your eye lids wilt as he leans in, tilting his head to the side for deeper access, and your fists loosen, sneaking around his belt loops, bringing his body closer. The atmosphere brings an alcoholic blush across his nose, definitely not the way you turn his hips, as if trying to guide his head, lips, and tongue. He retreats just a little bit, ultimately coming back after he finds another unexplored part in your mouth. Everything is all mouth – you never smack your lips on his; he never closes his lips over yours; there is no pecking. Jeno senses the corners of your mouth, stopping his body from moving while you tongue circles on his tip. You pull back after a few swirls, starting to drool – Jeno can feel it, so he nibbles on your bottom lip, gnawing the top half lightly, getting rougher and rougher the more you enable him. Until he stops. “I’m still pissed off though,” he lets you know, reverting to your conversation.

“Obviously,” you repeat, equally mad.

The pressure builds up in Jeno’s cheekbones the more time passes without your face attached to his, and he takes the moment to soften at your features, asking them why you are so heated at the sight of him. When he finds no answer, he implores your mouth, pecking pillowy lips on yours, jerking your head like a joystick. His lips drag you to the tips of your toes, bringing your pelvis against his; his long fingers outline the sides of your face, sketching around your ears; his thumb drags along your cheek to your jawline, tilting your face as he opens his mouth, preparing to suction on your mouth.

Knock, knock, knock.

Jeno feels your torso tense and your hands come to his pectoral muscles again. You push him away and pull your limbs back to your body, shutting down with a low strike on the wall. It definitely sounds like you slapped him again.

“If you two are hate fucking in my closet, I’m kicking you out,” Hongjoong says from behind the door.

“As if,” Jeno croaks, voice still low and hoarse because he has not drunk water in the two hours since practice ended. He dives through the crowd, emerging first.

All eyes are on him, and he knows that they think you two sat in silence, simmering angrily. He likely looks angry too, face warm and red, the vein in his neck throbbing, chin jutted out as he looks for someone else, a real friend. They might think you offended him with the way you just stand in the closet (he didn’t hear you walk away), yet no one says anything. He can only imagine what they think – your baby hairs float off your face; your lips caught in your mouth, trying to hide the bruising; eyes darting from him to them to your hands. Jeno shakes his head. He has to get out of here.

But you chase him – everyone thinking that it is to apologize.

You catch Jeno outside, in front of his deep red car, and tug on his arm.

“Why are you leaving?”

Jeno shrugs you off and opens the car door, leaning between it and the rest of the car, standing tall. It barricades you from him. “Because I know how you are.” You tilt your head to the side. He wonders if you know how easy to read your face is. “You are so caught up in appearances. Why would I ruin that over some stupid game?”

You nod slowly, absorbing his explanation, eyes darting around his silhouette, trying to focus on everything behind him. He even glances back but sees nothing, just rows of cars lining up the sidewalk. Not a single person leaving the party right now either, probably because house parties are so rare; movies and books make them seem like common occurrences, so people want to cling to them before they go away. But Jeno is not always right. And another group of people exit the party, walking down hill to their car, laughing loudly enough to alert you two. You shove Jeno in the driver’s seat, hovering above him as he adjusts to the leather chair.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” he asks, rubbing behind his neck.

You yank the lever that forces the seat toward the back and sit on your knees, between his legs, looking at him through your eyelashes. “There were people outside,” you say as if it were obvious, lifting your hands into the air then smacking them back on your bare thighs.

“You –“ Jeno begins incredulously, tightly. “You cannot be serious.”

“You’re the one who said that I care so much about appearances! So what if it’s true?”

The lights turn off in his car, and instantaneously, the atmosphere reminisces Hongjoong’s closet. Jeno searches for your face, relying on a streetlight to see, not wanting to feel around for you. He puts a hand over the door, searching for the handle, but he catches his pretty wrist in the moonlight, sans blue bracelet. Jeno brings his arm between you two, closer to his chest though, inspecting the nakedness. Where the hell did his bracelet go? Surely, if someone stole it at the party, he would’ve heard something. Everyone is practically preening for the chance to steal a bracelet. He pats his chest down again, hoping that he could find it the same way that he found yours – in the folds of his shirt. But you, who gathered where his thoughts were, felt along the ground and found it by his foot. Jeno stares at how you hold it up curiously.

“What?” he exclaims sarcastically. “Are you going to slap me again?”

You laugh dryly but your voice trails distantly. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”

“As expected.” Jeno rolls his eyes, ultimately returning to your face, just to see the nosy expression take over again. “You don’t really know anything about me.”

“Bullshit,” you counter, rising on your knees. You loose balance easily, trying not to step on his toes, literally, and he catches you, again, by the hands this time, putting them on his thighs. He swears that a thankful smile cracks your façade, but it disappears in the same second. Your hands are the only reminders that you are arguing with him, pushing hard and hot into his muscles, like a terrible massage. He cracks for a second, whimpering in pain, and you alleviate it a little bit, only ghosting your touch on his pants, no longer leaning. “I know so fucking much about you, Lee.”

“Oh yeah?” he taunts. “What’s my first name?”

You crawl over him, placing a hand on the chair, under his thigh, moving the other behind his shoulder to hover on of him. He watches you, only able to move his chin with you, lips following yours. You lean down to his ear, hiding your face, making him doubt, a little bit, that you are the real person whispering, “Jeno”. He creeps his hands on the edge of your skirt, yanking it lightly as a signal to bring you forward, which you do, staring deeply in his eyes. “I know that you started hockey after all your friends, so now you stay later than them on the rink.” You trail your lower hand up his thigh, under his top sweatshirt, haunting around his defined muscles. “I know that you did your freshman honors thesis on hockey pucks and friction.” Jeno grabs your waist harder at the innuendo, accidentally pulling you into straddling his leg, and you yelp, falling into his chest. You straighten up quickly, trying to find a position comfortable enough to look at him, to tease him. In the midst of it all, you confess, “I know that you are more than hockey, and you’re infuriatingly good at other things, like –“

Jeno swallows a groan.

“– math and drawing.” You smirk. “Did I say something to make you mad?” you ask, faux-innocently. “Did you know I could do that?” You lean into his ear, twirling a strand of hair behind his ear. “Do you even know anything about me?” Jeno nods; of course, he does – no one spends all the energy he has on this … this rivalry, to come out with nothing. You lean away, slowly, dropping back on your knees, on the floor, and rub the inside of his manspread thighs. “Can you tell me one thing? I gave you three.”

“I know that –“ Jeno swallows, not sure if he wants to tell about an intimate moment he once witnessed, but you look at him with expectant eyes crinkling with innocence, even if that innocence might be hidden behind sensuality. “– during competition season, in the quietest moments between performances, you disobey your expensive coach’s direct orders –“ He throws the nepotism back in your face, alleviating the familiarity that neither of you should be sharing. “– and sit in an empty rink, eating a strawberry McFlurry.” The silence after is deafening, bringing back that ringing sound he heard after practice in place of his teammates, so he adds, “I don’t know what you think about,” but he can guess. It is probably the same thing that he thinks about before games – less about the plays, about the potential for losing, more about being on the ice, how fun everything is, despite the misery that comes from losing.

Jeno locks eyes with you, wondering if he finally found a common ground. Your hands, and eyes, responsively drop to his ankles, fiddling the hems. He starts to consider … that he went too far … again, and he exhales, collapsing further into the cold leather chair, scooting away from you. It’s not like he has Jaemin’s boy-next-door-charm, or Renjun’s suavity; and he is certainly not as approachable as Yangyang. He can never get it just right, find that perfect balance. You always fly off the handle with him, and he has the hardest time even talking to you. Nothing he says is ever the correct thing.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oh. Maybe being vulnerable was a good thing, though his body is still humming as if angry.

“Ye-yeah,” Jeno answers, after a second, his voice rasping moreover. He goes to you, angling his whole chest, but you stop him, a hand just to the right of his heart, almost like missing the point completely, which he does, in this case, tilting his head to the side, a frown settling in.

“Not on the lips.”

Jeno examines your face, searching, first, for malice, last for answers. You have a tint of rivalry glowing across your cheeks, obscured by mischief.

“Hold this.” You hand him the edge of his shirt, and he accepts, wordlessly, bunching it high enough to show off all his abs – a smart choice, given the way you pause to admire each defined muscle band.

Jeno twists his wrist, during the quiet, readjusting the material, but as he does, it rubs on his hardening nipples – which are not the only thing hardening. You travel your hand up his chest, starting from the top half of his v-line, ending under his nipples, under his shirt. His knee spasms, motioning for you to start whatever you were going to do, hoping that you might put your mouth south. But you take your opposite hand and cradle his face, making him look up at you, his eyes seeming wider – innocent, less resentful than you are known to see, no taunts or mean names on his tongue. Although, another breathless statement about God might hang in there. You scratch your nails along his cheek, simultaneously leaning down on the other side of his face, to his ear.

“Not right there,” you instruct, then move the frayed end into his mouth, the rest of the shirt gathering under his pecs like a bra. You trail down his neck to his hand, where he holds his two shirts, then unwind his tight grip. He lets the material unravel, mouth parting smally with it too, just like you want. You draw his bottom lip open and hang the shirt on his teeth. He nods consensually biting into the material, expecting you to actually tease his muscles this time, but you only guide his mouth to a close.

Then your icy fingers curl under his belt line, and he whines.

“Why – hnng,” Jeno starts, finishing with a tremble, silenced.

That is when he understands: you want to gag him. Not completely, to the point where he is void of response, but enough to prevent him from saying anything completely; though, he could reject you right now, at any point, if he didn’t want your touch. Jeno stares at you, on your knees, fingers paused from sliding his pants all the way off. Neither of you have ever made this much eye contact, and he … he just wants to keep watching you. Have you always been this passionate?

“Keep that there for me, okay?” you ask, implicitly talking about consent over the boundary you are about to cross.

Jeno nods smally, not wanting to drop his shirt or wet it so disgustingly.

You tease a finger through his underwear, where his cock would normally peek from, using the space to prod him out the waistband. He nudges you, needily, trapping your palm between the tops of his thighs, all the muscles there pulsing faster than his currently erratic heart. You give him an impatient look, wagging your head, tsk, tsk. It makes him curl his chin to his chest, sheepish, like he did something wrong, and he shakes his hair, too, curtaining his blushed face behind his long, black bangs. Jeno feels you gently pull him out of his headspace, figuratively and literally. You strip his bottoms all the way to his ankles, careful not to touch his dick, even though he wants you to, so badly. When you straighten your back up, brushing your tits on his knees, resting them perkily above him, you stare at his dick, just for a moment, head tilted to the side. He almost ruins it, tongue poking his clothes away to ask if you want to stop, but you kiss the underside of his penis head – only once, waiting for his reaction, and he gives it to you, of course. The weightless smack from your lips tickles, and he wonders if you actually did it. Then you do it again, and again, and again. Kisses turn into flicks, all on the underside, building up more saliva as you curl the dorsal side, flicking it easily.

Hnng. You are a figure skater, Jeno remembers. Being graceful is in the definition. It is why your insults always have such a clean cut and give him an opening to respond. He usually gets the last word. But this is a different kind of graceful, where you are gentle with him – asking for consent, touching him delicately, making sure that he is okay every step of the way.

When you are ready, you slowly creep your lips over his cock head and retreat, backing off along with the heat from your mouth. Jeno can feel his dick follow you in anticipating, trembling the longer you study him, and he moans brokenly: please. It comes out incoherent and muffled. You relax your jaw lowly, letting your tongue slide outside your lips to cover your bottom row of teeth as you swallow a portion of the top. His cock bounces in your mouth, slapping around your small mouth. He clenches his fist by his thighs, not knowing where to put them. You circle your index finger and thumb halfway down his shaft, jacking him off along one of the veins that come above his balls. He wonders if you want him to give you a facial, especially after you come up, rubbing it long your innocent looking cheek, but a hand comes above his balls, stopping him from cumming. And he groans, throwing his head back again. Maybe you’ll suck the cum out of him, like a well-blended smoothie through a straw.

Jeno drops his shirt out of his mouth, covering his abs once again. The groan reverses onto your throat – he guesses that you don’t like the cover. You muffle the whine with his dick in your mouth again, the sound constricting all the way around him. Jeno grabs a hold of your throat, nicely, feeling how your esophagus adjusts for him.

“Oh, God, oh fuck,” he whispers, abs tightening shakily. He gains some control after you begin a steady bobbing, using your salvatory ducts to prevent from gagging. You curve your tongue at the back of your throat, feeding his dick against it. The feel is no different from deep throating, if Jeno is being honest, but your tongue is much more pillowy and your cheeks suck in air, pulling them tightly over your teeth, giving him a vacuum suction that reminisces a really good fleshlight and would need a lot of practice to get as right as you do. “Is that what those practices are?” he asks you. “A chance to practice for my dick?”

Jeno cups your cheek and pulls his dick out of your throat, like giving you a chance to answer. But before you can, he taps his cock on your tongue again, just the tip, rasping the underside of his head on your reflexively curled tongue, which appears half-prepared to answer his question, half-prepared to get throat fucked.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he drags out. His hand comes into your hair, scratching along your temple to tuck those pretty little strands behind your ears; his thumbs briefly emerge through the top, then hide, again, in the tangled ponytail. You perform faster, ruining his illusion of control, and he clutches your hair tighter, holding you in place to stop from cumming. He pants through his nose, and you give him a short rest until bringing both your hands along his exposed cock, twisting them in opposite directions while your tongue remains steady under his twitching tip. “Ah,” he pleads, trying not to come. He sits up fully, knees almost going with him, had it not been for your strong chest, and you pull off, panting equally hard. And, fuck, your tits are sexy.

You stand up as much as you can in the cramped space, spine rubbing up the headlining as you put one foot forward then straddle him with the other leg. Jeno helps you adjust, bringing your cushiony thighs closer into his chest, just right under his pecs. He looks up at you, and you stop fidgeting, putting your hands on his shoulders for balance, teetering on your knees until you finally fall into him, your hair covering the both of you. You crane your neck down blowing on his earlobe first, then inside his ear. He grabs you harder, supporting your ass as you hold his throat in place, marking the area between his clavicle and right ear.

“Do you have a condom?” you whisper, slowly bending down, tracing the outline of your underwear with his tip – repeating the gesture over and over again, several times, until he answers.

Jeno’s head bobs – nods, yes – on your shoulder, but you mistake it for pleasure, grabbing him by the chin again, so he looks into your eyes and swallows. “Yeah,” he verbalizes, “in the glove compartment.”

You pull away from his chest, and he instinctively stabilizes your waist, possibly obsessed with it. Jeno accidentally grabs you too roughly, he thinks, situating you over his really big tip. You brace yourself on the center console, moaning loudly.  Your tits push into the leather so difficulty that they nearly pop out of your bra, which would not be too difficult. Jeno can see your strap falling down your upper arm. You shallowly bounce on him through your underwear. It feels so good, so wet, so disappointing because he wants to fill you up already. While he grinds his ass into the chair, flopping his cock over your clothed pussy, you reach over the passenger’s seat, which seems to be two metres away now, your arm reaching shakily. And finally, you pull out a condom, turning the golden wrapper around in the shallow light to find the front.

“A large?” you read, treating it like a question. You come back to him, sitting on his sculpted v-line, grinding your ass languidly into his cock standing tall behind you. “An extra large?” you squint at the foil, then raise a suspicious eyebrow.

Jeno pulls your thighs up to his chest and plucks the condom from your greedy little hands.

“You’ll need it,” he answers, tone implicitly asking you to trust him.

He tears the foil open and fingers around for the right side. It is difficult in the poorly illuminated street. So, he is thankful when you take over, repossessing the condom. You climb over his cock, sticking your ass out again, to get in a better position. Your hands are so pretty.

“Pinch the tip,” Jeno instructs breathily. “Yeah, fuck, like that.” He watches you catch his restless dick and fit the ring over his tip. You grab him hard, fingers not quite reaching all the way around. He isn’t sure if that is because his dick is so big or if your wrist is too loose. None of it matters, though, when you take both hands and roll the condom all the way down, not stopping until his voice is back to cracking, pushing out those ah, ah, ahs again. Jeno pulls you up again, forcing you to brace on his pecs. Both of you start stripping now. Jeno takes off your long-sleeve and tugs your tits out of your bra cups, leaving them supported by the push-up wire. He is tempted to suck them, staring at them, stunned; hands sculpting your sides, then jiggling your tits until your nipples harden more than his dick. You take your turn after he has his fun but before he mouths them. His shirts come off easier and you ignore his muscles, immediately rubbing your nipples over his. He wonders if you have ever been touched like this, touched here, but the thought is fleeting as you take off your panties, throwing the soaked material on his shirts. You situate on his thigh, muting any arguments that might arise, rubbing the newly naked skin together.

Jeno lets you grind on his thigh a few times, feeling the way your clit twists and turns. He flexes his muscles, all of them – his abs under your hands, his leg under your pussy, his arms under your body. Your grinds turn into bounces, so Jeno catches your ass, prying your legs open again, on either side of his hips. He pinches the inside of your thighs, fingers loosing their adhesion from all your self-lubrication, then pushes his index finger inside – his long, muscular finger with clean, polished nails. His thumb swipes back and forth on your clit, replacing his thigh to stimulate you. And you falter, shuddering, legs shaking a little bit next to his cock. You rest your head on his shoulder, giving him access to yours. He opens his mouth along your collarbone, suctioning the lightest hickeys then getting rid of them with forceful laps from his floppy wet tongue.

“You like that?” Jeno whispers as he pushes in two extra fingers. First, curls all three upward, cupping your clit with his palm, and you start grinding on it, waiting for more movement, but still needing to adjust to the drastic change in size. When you relax, sitting on his hand, Jeno flexes his hand back and forth, desperately manhandling your body to and from his. You stay still above him, arms tightening around his shoulders, muscles shaking; you try to respond yes, but he doesn’t hear it, trying a new tactic. “Does that feel good?” he asks. His fingers start moving in different directions, scissoring a whole new stretch. They scrape a new, high-pitched ah, aah, ah out your throat, the sound only elongating when his thumb stops swiping your clit to rub circles on it as trying to clamp his entire hand through your pussy. “Fuck, you sound so good. You’re doing so well.” Jeno grazes his teeth on your shoulder, tipping you over the edge, and you grip his dick harder, for some anchor on reality. Both of you moan, throwing your heads together, almost kissing. Your lips are so intimate with his, breathing hot air over his closed mouth. Jeno nudges you, brushing the tip of his nose on yours. “Are you ready?”

“Fuck,” you whisper, possibly wondering how the hell he can be so considerate. You lick a stripe on his cheek, at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not glass,” you reassure him, although sounding irritated. “You can’t be that big,” you answer, “Like, there is no way that I need to get prepped by so many fing –“

Jeno pulls out his fingers and slams his dick up your pussy in the same second. The both of you swear simultaneously, and your breath, specifically, becomes more winded, becomes faster, becomes shaky.  Jeno didn’t consider that he might need to adjust, his cock throbbing as if trying to stretch your circumference even wider.

“You – You were saying?” he stutters, then throws his head back on the headrest.

You teeter on your knees, outside his thighs, slowly and shallowly bouncing on him. He pushes the tops of your thighs until you rest on the cold steering wheel, turning it as you gain more momentum to ride his dick. You lead with your hips, swaying forward and back into his pelvis.

“Now I know where the ego comes from,” you bite – and literallybite his neck.

“I deserve it,” he retorts, pressing his feet into the ground, then slamming his hips into you a few times. The new adjustment displays your tits so beautifully, chest raised and propping out, so he leans down, suctioning sucking your warm skin from shoulder to areola. Your back locks on the steering wheel, changing the angle at which his cock hits your G-spot, and you moan loudly. In response, Jeno puts his thumb in your mouth, squashing your tongue, saliva pooling so quickly that you immediately close around it. You slump forward, grabbing at his veiny arm, fumbling around until one hand clamps on his wrist and the other over a vein. “You’re too loud,” he whispers, until you swirl your hips in small figure eights. His hand relaxes and he groans, throatily – to which you cover.

“Who’s being loud now?” you taunt. “Guess I’m that good, huh?”

Jeno cannot disagree. You feel so good, and tight, and warm. His hand drops between your bodies, allowing you to come back up again, then back down, then back up, and down, and up, and down, and up. You massage at a vein behind his ear with two fingers and suck on one of his nipples, occasionally biting the edges of his areola then licking bite mark healed. When you reach a hand underneath his, toying between your clit and the parts of his cock that become exposed, he gathers that you are trying to make him cum first.

“Why are you still competing with me?” he bites angrily. Jeno takes away your fingers and plays with your clit himself, tugging it through the lubrication. He massages it with big circles, going around your pussy lips, the bundle of nerves at the top of your clit, spreading the wetness everywhere. “Fuck, I’m stuffing you so full, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” you agree without thought, all words choking in your exposed throat as he blows your back out. “’m suh ‘ucking ‘ull,” you whimper, though the syllables break into petty gasps that he can barely string together. “Ah,” you whine sharply, squeezing your eyes shut until they pulse at an opposite rate to your vaginal walls. Then, Jeno finds another angle, moving his ass against the cold console (he yelps at it, hips driving upward, away from the box, and his cock buries itself in your guts), and your eyes pop open, along with your jaw. Every new pound coaches a sob off your lips.

Jeno, still utterly obsessed with your waist, digs his thumbs into the front of your pelvis, his long fingers massaging your ass as you come forward to match his thrusts. You fall forward again, hands bracing on the shoulders of the chair behind him, tits right in his face. Jeno pants heavily, breath lost with each release, but he still chooses to kiss you.

Well, your tits. He mouths at the skin around your nipples, kneading his lips into the plushy flesh as his abs lock and your thighs tighten.

“Oh, oh, oooh,” Jeno cries, his hips stuttering as your pussy clenches get smaller, firmer.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you whisper, “c’mon. Right there, Lee.” He pushes particularly hard, as if breaching another barrier. “Ah, Jeno.”

His name brings him back to attention, staring at the tension in your face. You stutter your hips, and he tries to still his, letting you build up to an orgasm. You manhandle his cock, jerking it around inside your body. Your glossy muscles start constricting tighter and tighter, no longer throbbing, as if your pussy tries to drink his entire cock. Jeno belts an arm above your ass and clamps a hand on your waist, getting you in a stationary position. He settles his feet firm, stable, into the ground, preparing himself this time, this last time, then he palpitates into you, his hips grinding into your clit a few seconds after every thrust to really get deep. You claw on his muscular shoulder, fingers digging hard, all the tension going straight to the ends of your body and up your pussy with his cock. He feels you sucking him in and holds his thick dick there, swirling it all around – one, two, three.

“Fuck,” you whine, high pitched, croaking tiredly. Your walls scrape and then beat out a samba all over his cock, throbbing with your orgasm.

Jeno returns half a second later when his tip catches on a particular tug and he empties into the condom, possibly elongating his member. You whimper weakly at the stimulation, but hold him securely, preventing him from pulling out just yet. He lets you lay on him, like that, for minutes, maybe hours, arms circling his neck. Jeno thinks, wow, thisfeels nice – better than hugs from his friends and surprisingly, even better than those team huddles after a good practice.

But his arms are stuck, frozen at his sides while fatigue takes you over. Jeno gives it another second, then his fingers twitch, suddenly gaining the momentum, again, to return your embrace. You, on the other hand, have different thoughts, and pull away, patting him on the chest, relieving yourself of him.

Jeno thinks that the worst kind of time travel is this one, where you two are on opposite schedules. He just needs a break from it.

A time out.

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