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pin-k-ink · 5 months

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feral // kyoutani kentarou

tw ⇢ possessive!kyoutani, sexual tension, teasing, dirty talk, making out, begging, fingering, biting, cunnilingus, overstimulation, name calling, mild degradation, unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampie, mentions of masturbation, semi public sex

wc ⇢ 11.5k

a/n: this was for the sweetheart that asked for some kyoutani smut. i’m sorry i accidentally deleted your request ;_;

You never knew what to expect when Kyoutani Kentarou stomped into the room, his perpetual scowl etched deeply across his face.

From the moment he had joined the Aoba Johsai volleyball team in his first year, the hot-headed wing spiker had been a ticking time bomb of aggression just waiting to explode. Despite Coach Mizoguchi and the upperclassmen's efforts to rein him in, Kyoutani seemed to take perverse pleasure in disrupting practice with his outbursts and insubordinate behavior.

Which was why you, as the team's manager, often found yourself being summoned to deal with the fallout of his latest tantrum.

"He's done it again," Yahaba groaned one afternoon, shoulders slumped in exasperation. "Kyoutani started mouthing off during the hitting drills and it escalated into a full-blown brawl with Watari."

You bit back a sigh, feeling a headache already forming. Ever since the newly-minted captain had instituted "disciplinary punishments" for the unruly wing spiker, you'd been the one tasked with monitoring his compliance.

The punishments ranged from tedious chores like cleaning the gym to studying in the library after practice - essentially anything to constructively wear down Kyoutani's endless reserves of pent-up aggression. At least, in theory.

Because in reality, getting the tempestuous third-year to actually apply himself to the remedial tasks proved an uphill battle of wills every single time. You could already envision the confrontation awaiting when you attempted to corral him later.

Sure enough, Kyoutani was his usual prickly self when you finally tracked him down in one of the empty classrooms later. He was slouched low in a rickety desk chair, booted feet propped up and arms crossed like a petulant child as you entered.

"I know, I know...library study time again," he grumbled without even looking up. "When are you jailers gonna get some new material?"

You refused to rise to the bait of his surliness, instead simply fetching one of the textbooks from the pile on the teacher's desk.

"As many times as it takes for you to learn some self-control, Kyoutani-san," you replied calmly. "Now open up to chapter nine and start reading."

A muscle ticked visibly in his clenched jaw as he dragged his glower up to finally meet your steady gaze. You braced yourself for the usual torrent of insolent pushback that always followed these disciplinary sessions.

But this time...something seemed to flicker and fracture in Kyoutani's stony glare the longer your silent staredown stretched. You watched as his narrowed eyes gradually widened, tracked the way his throat bobbed slightly on a subconscious swallow.

Was it a trick of the light, or did his cheeks appear just the faintest shades pinker beneath that oppressive scowl of his?

The surly wing spiker seemed to catch himself after a beat too long, blinking rapidly as he scrubbed one hand over his face with a low grumble.

"Whatever...let's just get this over with," he muttered, snatching up his pencil and cracking open the textbook with far less resistance than usual.

An odd, perplexed furrow creased your brow at his uncharacteristic acquiescence. But rather than pry into the bizarre shift of behavior, you simply took your customary seat near the front and opened your own bookbag to pass the tutoring time in productive quiet.

Out of the corner of your periphery, you periodically caught glimpses of Kyoutani's hand dragging through his disheveled fringe in what looked like agitation. His nostrils would flare slightly, lips pressed into a flat line of concentration - or perhaps constipation judging by his pinched expression.

More than once you opened your mouth, a gentle reminder on the tip of your tongue to urge him to stop stalling and simply get on with his assigned reading for once.

But each time the words wilted before they could form as your eyes traced the taut, corded lines of muscle shifting beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Watched the play of tendons flexing along the powerful column of his throat as he swallowed again in apparent... agitation?

An infinitesimal spark of heat you hadn't noticed before seemed to smolder behind Kyoutani's russet stare whenever his gaze would instinctively, unconsciously dart over to follow you shifting position in your seat.

It was...unnerving to be studied in such an abruptly intense manner by someone as volatile as the hotheaded spiker. You couldn't deny the fine prickle of unease slowly blossoming beneath your breastbone the longer that strange silent observation stretched out between you.

But still...you couldn't bring yourself to shatter the weighted quiet crackling with some indefinable new tension, either.

Over the next few tutoring sessions, Kyoutani's newly mercurial behavior only seemed to intensify further. His moods would careen wildly between sullen aloofness one minute, only to have his gaze practically scorching a trail over your movements the very next.

You couldn't deny the spark of inexplicable heat that bloomed low in your belly whenever you'd catch him tracking you with that piercing stare - slightly hooded and inscrutable in a way that sent confusing little shivers racing beneath your skin.

During one study hall, you made the questionable decision to bend at the waist and retrieve your pencil case from your bag on the floor. When you straightened again, textbook cradled in the opposite arm, you found Kyoutani's intense focus locked onto the new vantage you'd inadvertently offered.

His eyes snapped up instantly when he registered your upright position once more, but not before you caught the faintest hint of pink staining those sharp cheekbones. The wing spiker startled like a kid caught snatching sweets before dropping his stare guiltily to the desktop.

You could have sworn you glimpsed his throat working in a harsh swallow, chest expanding on a sharp inhale. And all at once the simmering tension in the small classroom took on an unmistakably suggestive edge you couldn't ignore.

Flustered heat flooded your own features as the implications crashed over you in a dizzying rush. Was it possible Kyoutani had just been...

No, you firmly shut down that inappropriate trail of thought before it could start sparking more indecent ideas. With some deliberate throat-clearing, you shifted your weight and pointedly avoided looking in the disgruntled spiker's direction once more.

The next few minutes stretched out in a weighted hush that felt thick enough to drown in. Until finally Kyoutani gruffly broke the silence by slamming his pencil down and shoving his chair back from the desk with a screech of wood on tile.

"This stupid babysitting shit was supposed to help control my temper, right?" he growled in a voice made thick and gravel-rough by...something you couldn't put a name to.

You blinked up at him with a bemused frown. "Well...yes? That was the inten--"

"Hasn't worked for shit," Kyoutani snapped before you could finish, suddenly on his feet and radiating wild, jagged energy. "Don't think locking me up with homework is gonna solve jack if you wanna stop me losing my shit."

With that brusque declaration hanging in the air, he abruptly slung his bag over one shoulder and stalked for the door without a backwards glance. His motives, as usual, were utterly inscrutable.

You could only sit and gape after the wing spiker's tense departure, feeling utterly poleaxed and more than a little flustered by whatever fresh maelstrom of emotions seemed to have been roiling just beneath Kyoutani's surface this entire time.

Over the next few weeks, his outbursts and disruptive antics only continued unchecked - racking up infraction after infraction at an alarming rate. At this juncture, even Yahaba was at a loss for how to proceed in curbing his unruly teammate's behavior.

"None of these punishments seem to be taking," the captain sighed in exhaustion one afternoon as you watched Kyoutani storm out after his latest raging display. "If anything, it's like he's been acting out more just to wind up with extra sentences of study time."

Your brow furrowed as you absorbed his observations alongside your own disjointed suspicions regarding Kyoutani's volatile state. Because the more you mulled it over, the more it seemed like the surly third-year almost...enjoyed receiving those private punishments with you as his monitor.

A troubling thought began to form, one you hesitantly brought up when seeking Yahaba's counsel on how to proceed.

"Captain...is there any possibility the reason he's been even more disruptive is...well, because of me?"

Yahaba's brow arched quizzically. "What, like he has a crush on you or something? HA! Yeah right, that would require Kyoutani being capable of feeling anything other than rage and spite."

You smiled wanly, though the jeering laughter didn't quite manage to fully dispel those nagging uncertainties from taking root further. Because now that the idea had been verbalized, however ludicrous, you couldn't seem to dislodge it entirely from your wavering thoughts.

And over the subsequent days and weeks, the theory only mushroomed into something far more tangible and visceral to dismiss.

The rising charged tension between you and Kyoutani felt nearly palpable, manifesting in a series of escalating encounters and near-misses that left you feeling perpetually off-kilter and frayed.

A terse bathroom encounter in which the sound of running taps from the sinks had drowned out his arrival, only for you to turn around and find Kyoutani looming in the open doorway with that searing gaze roving over you in one long, heated assessment. The sleeves of your fitted shirt had ridden up around your forearms, leaving slightly disheveled and flushed from the exertion of scrubbing away stubborn floor scuffs. Kyoutani's jaw had tightened perceptibly as he drank in your relatively undone state, nostrils flaring like a predator catching the scent of prey.

Before either of you could address the weighted tension strangling the cramped room, the boisterous arrival of more teammates behind him sent Kyoutani abruptly about-facing and stalking away as if you'd burned him.

Or the time he'd caught you in the gym storeroom struggling to haul a bulky rack of withered volleyballs to the wash basin across the cramped space. Without prompting, Kyoutani had pivoted on that eerily feline tread of his to crowd up behind you - the sudden brand of his muscular frame searing into your back as his larger hands came around to grip the cumbersome rack on either side of yours.

"Lemme do that for you," he growled in that sandpaper rasp that raised goosebumps all along the nape of your neck.

Dazed by the sudden smoldering proximity, you could only offer a jerky nod of assent before allowing your grip to slacken completely. Kyoutani took the bulk of the weight without visible strain, tendons cording and flexing beneath the bronzed pulls of his powerful forearms as he leveraged the rack into steady motion. All while making sure to prowl at a distinctly leisurely pace just behind your rigid posture, hemming you in against the low countertop's edge and those matte metal surfaces still radiating day-old warmth...

You sucked in a sharp breath at the unsubtle glide of his hips brushing yours on each laborious step closer to your destination. Heat prickled all along the back of your thighs from the continual drag of his solid girth framing you in from behind. And when Kyoutani finally pivoted and deposited the rack aside near the industrial sinks, the sudden dissolving of that searing full-body press had you feeling oddly untethered. As if every undefended inch of your back now tingled with feverish sensitivity in the absence of his caging presence.

That roiling, choking tension between you only mounted further with each drawn-out entanglement. Like an ember being stoked brighter with every suggestive encounter into something perilously close to a raging wildfire neither of you seemed capable of reigning in anymore.

More than once, you found yourself trapped in Kyoutani's orbit - confronted with the stark reality of his potent physicality in a way so raw and overwhelming you could scarcely meet the fiery simmer of his gaze without feeling immolated from within.

During one disastrous laundry-folding session, he'd casually sauntered over to help sort through some equipment bags in typical brooding silence. Only to promptly get into a tug-of-war over some knotted laces ensnaring a pair of his shorts, arms straining and tendons cording as he braced his feet for leverage against you during the awkward tussle.

All it took was one particularly stubborn yank for the ensnarled fabric to finally give way, bunching beneath Kyoutani's grip and abruptly exposing his navel, lower abdomen, and the unmistakable vee of defined musculature all the way down to...

You barely registered the warning growl rumbling up from his chest as you instinctively devoured every salt-slicked, flexing inch of revealed skin with a ravenous stare you simply couldn't tear away from for the life of you. The blaze of heat and illicit want that rendered you momentarily insensate to anything but that breathtaking physicality sprawled temptingly before you in ways you'd only ever allowed yourself to imagine in the deepest throes of restless nights...

A sharp, smarting sting across the back of your knuckles finally dispelled the lust-drunk haze fogging your thoughts. You flinched back to reality with a full-body start, blinking rapidly as your unbound hair swung across your rapidly flushing features. Kyoutani loomed over you with his spine locked ramrod straight—the abortive swing of his arm suggested he'd lashed out to strike your wandering grip back from continuing to map out any more dangerous undiscovered territory between you.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?" The caustic rasp of his voice had you hunching your shoulders guiltily. Even still, you sensed the molten undertones of restrained...something else twining through those growled words like smoke and sinew.

Before you could stammer any hasty apologies about spacing out, Kyoutani snatched the tangle of laces and abruptly spun on his heel to stalk off in a tension-cloaked fury prickling with even more restless static charge than before.

All you could do was watch the broad, powerful lines of his retreating shoulders and back through a sheen of dazed longing - the echoes of that momentary, inappropriate eyeful both searing itself irrevocably into your hindbrain and kindling even more hapless embers of temptation to eventually set you both aflame once and for all...

The bubbling cauldron of charged tension could only contain itself for so long before something finally had to give. With each passing practice and tutoring session, you could feel Kyoutani's smoldering stare singeing into you from across the gym or classroom like twin laser-focused beams of sheer yearning.

It was getting harder and harder to deny or ignore the blatant implication of that ravenously intent study. Or to turn a blind eye to the way his nostrils would subtly flare with each inhale whenever you moved within proximity - as if scenting the ambient notes of your shampoo and perfume and committing every last tantalizing nuance to carnal memory.

But while Kyoutani's molten preoccupations with you seemed to steadily eclipse any remaining threads of restraint each day, you were embroiled in your own fraying internal war as well. One that collided and detonated in spectacular fashion the afternoon Watari, ever the friendly jokester, sidled up beside you with one of his patented sunny grins as you wiped down the front court railings between drills.

"Looking a little flushed there, y/n-chan!" The libero chirped in that effervescent rasp that always made you smile no matter how disgruntled you might be feeling. "Tough practice really giving you a workout today, huh?"

Offering him a beatific smile in return, you playfully swatted at his arm with the damp towel clutched in your hands.

"Something like that," you chuckled lightly. "More like dealing with Coach's endless notations wearing me down instead of the floor burns!"

Watari's nose scrunched up jovially as he fell into familiar banter alongside you, completely at ease in a way you'd always envied whenever spent in Kyoutani's mercurial presence. Where that hotheaded third-year simmered with sullen ferocity and roiling embers of something painfully unspoken, Watari danced and joked with the bubbly lightness you'd always wished you could nurture more of yourself these days.

Still snickering over his latest teasing rejoinder, you bent to set the grimy towel aside so you could collect up the rest of the cleaning supplies. Which was when you caught sight of Kyoutani across the gymnasium out of your periphery - utterly immobile and watching you both with razored focus. Specifically trained on the studiedly casual way Watari had shifted in close beside you as your laughter and camaraderie echoed bright across the high-ceilinged stretch of hardwood.

Even from a distance, you couldn't miss the acute line of tension visibly furling Kyoutani's shoulders back to an unmistakable knot of outward bristle. Nor the way his pupils had contracted to piercing pinpricks against the molten outrage visibly dilating the rest of his features into an unmistakable mask of lightning about to strike.

The visceral menace and scalding possessiveness painted across Kyoutani's chiseled contours in that instant nearly stole your ability to draw breath entirely. His heavy footfalls slammed across the courts like rolling thunderclaps as the wing spiker stormed in your direction - focused solely upon the perceived impunity of Watari now hemming you into the corner between the lockers and railing with his easy affability and casual flirting.

Before either you or the oblivious libero could register, Kyoutani's powerful bulk had shoved directly in between your joined proximities - effectively severing the personable bond with all the grace and discretion of a wildfire scalding across a drought. In the ensuing disoriented tumble of limbs and shocked exclamations, you reeled back against the hard concrete barrier with your heart in your throat.

Watari gaped up at Kyoutani from where he'd abruptly bounced off the larger wing spiker's chest in stunned bewilderment. But rather than acknowledging his sputtering indignation, the steely focus of Kyoutani's dismantling glower simply tracked past him to zero in on your flushed features and shallow pants with all the remorseless hunger of an apex predator locking onto its coveted prey at last.

"You and me," he growled in a register so choked and molten it had your core clenching paradoxically. "Practice rooms. Now."

Without sparing you or the libero another breath of regard, Kyoutani spun on his heel and stalked off towards the secluded annex classrooms appropriated for private coaching sessions. His thighs visibly bulged and flexed with each devouring stride beneath the clinging fabric as he sliced through anyone else standing in the way.

You had only enough time to gape haplessly after that possessed, potent display while gulping down the desperate rushes of fight-or-flight adrenaline roaring to molten life within your veins. When you finally managed to tear your gaze away to meet Watari's utterly befuddled stare, an unspoken acknowledgment seemed to pass between you...

Whatever feverish breaking point Kyoutani was hurtling towards with each escalating orbit around you, the rough wing spiker now seemed all but inevitable to combust beyond any hope of restraint or decorum in the very near future. All you could do was wait for the fateful encounter to run its cataclysmic course - and pray the raging fires burning between you weren't permanently extinguished in the aftermath of whatever reckoning was about to go down.

The remainder of practice passed in a disconcerting blur after Kyoutani's abrupt departure - your every sense now attuned to any subtle vibrations suggesting whatever powderkeg confrontation might be occurring behind those closed classroom doors.

More than once you startled and spun at the muffled dull thud of impact - fists against drywall or flesh, imagination running lurid as you pictured the broiling savagery the unstable spiker might be indulging with no prying eyes around. Just as often, the sound of that graveled baritone rasping indecipherable rejoinders through the baffling barrier had you involuntarily canting closer in hopes of gleaning any telling inflections.

But the only insights you managed to unearth from those fruitless listenings involved the dizzying blooms of heat blossoming low in your belly at every growled timbre. As if Kyoutani's voice alone contained hypnotic power to weaken your knees and dissolve your restraint to pliant surrender with each fervent rasp caressing your senses.

You had to shake yourself forcibly on multiple occasions from the spiraling descent into wanton reverie - cheeks flushed hot with shamed arousal that only intensified with every subsequent unraveling daydream of finally having that raw, aggression-laced physicality caged against your own trembling frame.

By the time Coach Mizoguchi finally called for dismissal, you felt wrung-out and frazzled in a way that had nothing to do with the actual physical exertions of the day's training regimen and everything to do with the tempestuous undercurrents still simmering unresolved and attended to. As you gathered your sparse possessions and tried valiantly not to betray the roiling unease gnawing away at your composure, the hair on the back of your neck abruptly lifted in forewarning.

Spinning towards the periphery coaching rooms, you glimpsed the door to the private conference area creaking open with ominous lethality. Kyoutani's hulking silhouette emerged first, striding forth on legs that seemed to devour the distance between you in a handful of prowling strides. His shoulders were locked at that telltale width suggesting every sinewy inch of musculature remained coiled at maximum tension beneath his untamed fury.

He did not acknowledge you in any overt sense. But the razor-line of his focus never once wavered or deviated from its scorching assessment of your increasingly flustered state. Conflicting desires warred within you - the unmistakable siren's call of curiosity demanding you crane to glimpse any evidence of fallout on Kyoutani's harsh visage from that impassioned seclusion just endured. While the more prudent, self-protective voices shouted to simply avoid any further incendiary provocations altogether and retreat while you still stood a chance of surviving with faculties intact.

All you could do was stand rooted, pathetic indecision eroding your footing beneath that steadily intensifying glare. It wasn't until he reached the limits of the doorframe that Kyoutani finally skated the tip of his incendiary stare higher - zeroing in on the only other occupant in the small staging room off the main gym with an unmistakable flare of possessive dismissal radiating from every taut line of his frame.

"We're done here," he growled in a voice that shredded past his gritted teeth. The words did not come across as a polite pleasantry despite their innocuous arrangement.

Coach Mizoguchi spared his volatile wing spiker the briefest of wary sidelong looks before nodding curtly and making his retreat without argument. Something about Kyoutani's present demeanor clearly cautioned against offering even the mildest pushback under any circumstances.

Once you were alone in that enclosed space together - just you and the barely-tamed wildfire of Kyoutani's focus steadily searing away any remaining vestiges of common sense or distance - the pressure in the air seemed to intensify tenfold. Each rasping exhalation you struggled to reign in only drew your shared aromas that much more intimately between your shared gravities. Sharp musk and residual adrenaline, floral body products and salted skin in a sinuously provocative melange that awakened whole new layers of yearning inside you.

When Kyoutani's gaze finally cut back to pin you in place with that familiar, bone-searing intensity, you felt your breath exit in a breathless rush of inevitability. Of acceptance that this tinderbox between you had finally reached its volatile crescendo...and all either of you could do now was let the raging fires sweep everything inevitably in their path to sweet, boneless ruination.

"So..." Kyoutani growled in that same perilous, shrapnel-laced rasp that seemed to slice right through your attempts at feigning composure. "You and the libero have been getting pretty damn cozy lately."

It wasn't phrased as an actual question despite the slight lilt tugging at the end - more an unmistakable statement of accusation loaded with displeasure. That scorching stare of his branded every trembling twitch reshaping your features as confusion swiftly curdled to realization, then a frisson of indignant defiance in the span of a few molten heartbeats.

"I-I'm sorry, what?" You stammered uselessly, desperate to stall for time against whatever rapidly escalating confrontation seemed to be unfolding from out of nowhere. "Watari and I are just...we've always been friends, Kyoutani. Teammates. Where is this even coming from?"

Another gravelly snarl ripped from the depths of his broad chest as those piercing amber irises visibly ignited with further outrage. Before you could so much as draw your next sharp intake, Kyoutani had bridged the remaining scant distance separating you in three devouring strides until you could taste the charged pheromones of him on the air.

"Don't play dumb with me," he bit out in a seething growl that had your pulse kicking up to gallop beneath your hammering ribcage. The heat of his overall presence radiated off Kyoutani in almost tangible waves now, caressing over your feverish skin in electric ribbons that raised every nerve ending to rapturous awakening.

"We both know that ain't the way you look at a damn friend or teammate, little girl."

The derisive, wrecked emphasis he laced onto that last endearment practically detonated in the shockwave between you like physical force. You reeled beneath the implication's stark insult as Kyoutani leaned down until you were forced to crane your neck back at an aching angle just to maintain that searing eye contact.

God he was huge like this - all dense, unyielding muscle and flexed potentials arrayed in towering apogee before you. It would be so easy for those larger-than-life hands and brutally-calloused grips to seize your pliant, undefended softness in a fit of unchecked possession and dominating fervor.

To simply wrench you up against that fever-warm expanse of carved musculature and scorching male intensity smothering against you in tsunamic waves with only the barest exertion from his end, utterly overpowering any feeble resistance through sheer liquid physicality alone...

A shuddering whimper threatened to break free from the shredded rags of your serenity as the next blazing pass of Kyoutani's hooded stare left no ambiguities about the forbidden directions your imagination had whited out into. He could clearly see every sordid desire and burst of need his provocation had stoked to incandescent life swirling naked across your features, eyes burning hotter at each outward tell you instinctively broadcasted.

"So why don't you just admit what we both already know?" He practically crooned in a rumbling, velvet-drenched baritone that skirted lower into sheer sin dipped in audible lust. "How it's been driving you half out of your mind watching me while trying to pretend you're not eye-fucking every goddamn inch of what you want all over--"

"Kyoutani!" The rebuked burst forth before you could think to reclaim your composure from the brink of unraveling completely.

Whether it was hearing him speak those incendiary confessions and temptations aloud after weeks spent wallowing in the swirling riptides of desire, or simply the overpowering proximity of his outrageous physicality spearing its way through the last remnants of your restraint, something finally reached terminal saturation point inside you.

He thrived off the scalding reproach dripping from your ragged tone, judging by the triumphant way his lips peeled back in a savagely amused smirk framing teeth. When he straightened to his towering height once more, the arrogance etched into his features promised whole new levels of molten ruination lying in wait. Just as promised.

"Ah, there's that fire I've been waiting to see blaze up completely, neh pretty girl?"

Another dark, indecently pleased rumble vibrated that drugged cadence of his as Kyoutani reached out with one of those huge, unforgivably strong hands. Before you had time to so much as register defensive retreat, his calloused knuckles were already skating over the feverish jut of your cheekbones - rough leather textures branding trails of molten possession across your bemused features in the most overtly intimate overture yet shared between you.

The breath fled your constricting lungs on a whimper you couldn't begin to bite back or deflect. And with that single unhesitating transgression uttered through touch alone, the last tattered remnants of propriety and restraint simply dissolved away to ash and embers without a whisper of struggle.

Whatever cliff you'd careened towards together finally loomed ahead in all its breathtaking plummet - with only the embrace of depravity and scorching rapture waiting to catch your ruination below.

All that remained was choosing just which of you would claim the dubious distinction of surrendering control first between your burning gravities.

You barely registered the breathless sound spilling from your parted lips as those wicked fingers continued their blazing path across the arcs of your features. Mapping out every thrilling plane and hollow with the attentive diligence of an artisan devotee committing their muse to raptured memory.

The intensity blazing behind Kyoutani's stare as he drank in your bemused surrender robbed you of any remaining pretense towards control or retreat. Only naked yearning swirled in those blazing amber depths now - an unmistakable harbinger of the molten intentions he meant to put into scorching motion whether you rallied resistance or not.

"I've wondered over and over what it might take to finally shatter that fragile little act of yours," he rasped in a voice gone low and viscous with sin audible. "Made myself half out of my goddamn mind imagining all the wicked ways I'd have to work at stripping away every last shred of propriety before I could get a real taste of the filthy little minx hiding underneath."

The stark, unabashed confession detonated through your wavering restraints with the force of a bunker buster. You could only gape up at Kyoutani, utterly transfixed and stripped raw beneath the intensity of his rapacious scrutiny as he prowled ever closer into your orbit.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice the way you couldn't fucking tear your hungry stare off me in the locker rooms?" A harsh growl rumbled up from somewhere deep in his chest as he caged you fully against the wall with that dense, radiating physicality made to tower over you. "Every time I caught those pretty eyes dragging over every new slick inch of skin bared to you...shit, it was like watching a bitch in heat struggling against her own depraved appetite while fooling precisely nobody but herself."

The scathing vulgarity landed like a physical slap, forcibly severing away the last threads of protest or propriety that might have remained with one brutal swing. Heat flooded your features at the stark, unrepentant filth painting his wrecked confessions with darker, more feral strokes of sin.

And yet you couldn't summon even the most token objection in the face of that viscerally potent onslaught. Kyoutani's words simply resonated in your hindbrains with hypnotic potency - voicing every forbidden craving and depraved imaginings precisely as you'd struggled to deny them to yourself all this time.

"Well now you've got what you always wanted, pretty," the unstable spiker purred with perverse delight as he closed those last few molten inches separating you. His massive frame dwarfed your slight stature utterly, the scorching brand of his body searing into each awakening nerve ending through the thin layers separating you now. "A chance to get up close and personal with the big scary Mad Dog you've been eye-fucking into oblivion behind everyone's backs."

That guttural endearment landed like a detonation right between your ribs, simultaneously stoking fresh embers of mortified outrage even as it awakened a deeper, more primal thrill of debasement in your core. You could practically feel every ounce of restraint fraying away as the turbulent storm of Kyoutani's focus intensified around you with each panted breath shared.

In one smooth inhalation, the powerful line of his carved jawline descended until Kyoutani's ruination-laced exhales caressed directly over the scorching blush staining your cheeks in intimate provocation.

"So what's it gonna be, pet?" He crooned directly against the feverish hollow of your parted lips - metallic rasp scraping your senses raw as his tongue peeked out to taste the trembling give there in shameless preview. "You gonna finally take exactly what that greedy little body of yours has been desperate for me to give? Or does the thought of finally surrendering to those depraved hungers terrify you even more than that repressed bitch behind your eyes lets on..."

You only had a split-second warning of Kyoutani's intentions before he decisively slanted his mouth over yours in a punishing glide of possession uninvited. The shredded whimper that tried to punch its way free was instantly muffled, absorbed and redirected back into your shared inferno with every subsequent devouring press of his lips and questing lashes of tongue.

Despite his savagery and overt dominance, there was an undeniable artfulness to the way Kyoutani worked at ruinously unmaking you bit by bit. His large hands easily captured your jaw and the nape of your neck to keep you splayed before him, utterly helpless beneath the scorching onslaught of his hunger as he plundered your senses with wicked precision.

Slick velvet textures tangled and retreated, only to delve deeper again on a lingering glide of utterly filthy temptation. The sweltering pressure of his body pinning you rigid to the solid surface at your back didn't allow for even the thinnest margin of escape or reprieve. Only total, rapturous surrender to being consumed by that unholy smolder of passion Kyoutani unleashed without mercy or faltering.

A broken, obscene keen vibrated up from somewhere deep in your throat as you instinctively arched and bucked beneath the exquisite lavishing focus of his attentions despite yourself. The electrifying drag of his callused knuckles trailing down over the exposed rise of your torso sent lightning pulses of unadulterated bliss hurtling through your overstimulated senses.

Every illicit slide of Kyoutani's merciless ministrations only stoked the smoldering inferno of depravity blazing to incandescent life between you. Until there was nothing left of higher cognitive processing beyond naked instinct to experience and indulge the blinding ecstasy of craving finally granted satiation without reservation.

When his large hands dropped lower still to cup and knead the pliant mounds of your ass underneath your skirt, the ragged groan that tore loose from Kyoutani's lips sounded as if torn straight from the depths of his chest. His blunt fingertips dug in with a punishing squeeze that sent molten pleasure arcing up through your core like a livewire, eliciting a high-pitched whimper of need and want and desperation to plead for more of those sinful caresses.

"Fuck yeah," Kyoutani purred against the bruised, glistening give of your mouth - a wicked smirk curling at the corners of his lips when he registered how your hips bucked instinctively to meet the molten roll of his pelvis against your own. "Just like that, pet. Show me exactly how much you want it. Need it. Need me."

The ragged, unguarded plea of his graveled baritone sent another electric jolt arcing through your veins, stoking the fever-bright flames of passion roaring between you to near-uncontrollable proportions. Kyoutani's tongue dragged against the plush swell of your bottom lip in a deliberate taunt, a warning, a threat as he pulled away just far enough to sear his gaze over the fever-dazed contours of your upturned face.

"I bet you taste as filthy as you look right now, pretty." That wrecked, husky rasp raked its claws over the shivering expanse of your skin like a physical touch. "How 'bout we find out for ourselves just how sweet a girl's honey-soaked cunt can get when she's dripping with need for her Mad Dog, hmm?"

Before you could react to that carnal challenge, Kyoutani's powerful arms swept beneath the curve of your backside - hauling you up with a sharp hiss of exertion against the rippling musculature of his abdomen until you had no choice but to lock your legs around his narrow hips for stability. The sudden friction of your panty-clad center grinding against his thick arousal through the barrier sent a frisson of white-hot need skittering up your spine.

Even still, Kyoutani seemed insistent upon pressing his advantage - crowding in until you could feel the wall's concrete solidity digging into your shoulderblades and the fever-warm press of his chest molded against yours. One massive hand remained locked around the nape of your neck, holding your face mere breaths away from the scorching proximity of his own as the other curled under the curve of your ass to support your weight effortlessly.

"Look at me," Kyoutani growled as he tightened his grip around the vulnerable column of your throat - not so much as applying pressure, but making his possession unmistakably clear regardless. His piercing irises had narrowed to slits of molten intensity as they raked over every flustered angle and fevered flush of your features in turn.

"I want those pretty eyes on me while I show you exactly how I mean to devour every last filthy inch of your cunt. How I'll make you scream and claw and beg for me while I fuck that tight little hole full of cum until it's dripping down your thighs. That's the only way this ends, kitten. With my dick buried balls-deep inside you and my teeth sinking into that soft throat of yours, claiming every single last inch of what belongs to me."

A full-body shudder wracked through you at the savage, indecent filth spewing from Kyoutani's lips, even as a fresh rush of heat flooded through your already soaked center at his depraved promise. His lips curled in a cruel parody of a smile as his hips shifted against yours - grinding the prominent bulge of his cock against the slick seam of your thighs and groin in a single, ruthless thrust that sent your eyes rolling back in their sockets.

"Now that's a pretty sight," Kyoutani rasped in a voice gone low and guttural with lust. "You really do get off on the way I talk to you, don't you pet? Fuck. The way you're writhing and bucking like a bitch in heat just to rub that soaked cunt against my dick has me half-crazy."

His tongue licked a searing trail across the seam of your lips in another blatant taunt, a teasing prelude of what was about to follow as Kyoutani's hand slid from its punishing grip on your neck. You felt his blunt fingertips trace over the fever-slicked planes of your torso in a feather-light graze - only to suddenly dip lower with purpose, skating the sensitive expanse of your exposed navel and lower still.

A strangled, broken sound ripped free from the depths of your chest as those thick fingers skated over the lace-trimmed gusset of your panties - searing their presence into the soaked folds hidden beneath with a sinuous drag of pressure and friction that had your back bowing against the wall.

"God, just look at how much you're gushing," Kyoutani purred with a sinful glint blazing behind his molten stare as he continued to stroke along your slit through the thin barrier. The fabric quickly became sodden under his persistent touch, a testament to just how much the depraved, vulgar filth of his words had stoked the fires of need blazing hotter within you both.

"All that honey pouring out for me just to soak these panties even more," he continued with a smirk, the pad of his index finger suddenly catching and circling the swollen nub of your clit until a sob punched free from your constricting throat. "What a sweet, dirty little whore I've caught for myself, neh? All it took was a few nasty words and promises of my dick to get you writhing like a bitch in heat begging to be bred. Fuuuck."

The ragged groan that wrenched itself free from Kyoutani's chest resonated directly through your quivering frame, sending fresh shocks of pleasure careening through your nerve endings and heightening the already-sweltering fever blazing between you. His hips jerked against the cradle of your thighs in a harsh grind, the searing imprint of his erection branding through your damp panties until the fabric threatened to tear with the force.

"Do you know how many times I've jerked off to thoughts of this pretty pussy just like this?" Kyoutani continued in that ruined, gravelly rasp that scraped your senses raw with every uttered syllable. "Imagining my face buried between these thighs and licking up every last drop of your sweetness while you writhe and squirm and scream. It's the only thing I've thought about every time I've gotten my fist wrapped around my dick - picturing just how fucking good it would feel to make you beg for it."

Before you could process the full impact of those sordid, scalding confessions, the fingers tormenting your slick folds and swollen clit abruptly slipped beneath the elastic hem of your panties. Your mouth fell open on a wordless cry of shock and need as Kyoutani's broad fingertips delved between your swollen petals - gliding through the soaked folds and probing at the entrance to your core with the same ruthless, focused determination he exhibited on the court.

"Gonna make you mine, kitten," he groaned in a voice that had become nothing but a guttural rasp, primal and rough and hungry in a way that had your entire frame seizing and arching. "I've been dying to sink my dick inside this cunt ever since I joined the team. So wet. So goddamn warm and tight. Shit."

Your vision went hazy and black around the edges as Kyoutani sank one long digit fully into your clenching heat - the sudden invasion forcing your walls to stretch and accommodate the intrusion while simultaneously stoking the firestorm of need building towards unbearable levels inside you. He barely gave you the time to register the fullness before Kyoutani withdrew to sink a second digit inside, the stretch and burn of such a sudden breach ripping a high-pitched moan free from the depths of your chest.

The way his lips twisted and curled back from his teeth as Kyoutani began to pump those fingers inside you at an unforgiving pace sent a new shiver coursing through your overstimulated system. His hooded gaze drank in each twitch and buck of your hips against his punishing thrusts, clearly reveling in the sight of your flushed features contorted in agonized ecstasy as he continued his merciless assault.

"There you go, kitten," Kyoutani crooned against the shell of your ear - his ragged exhales sending fresh waves of gooseflesh prickling across your feverish skin. "Let me hear how good it feels, little girl. I want you screaming so loud every last asshole who ever looked at what's mine gets it drilled into their skulls that only one man gets to enjoy this gorgeous, filthy cunt and that's me. I'm the one who owns this sweet little body, and every last drop of pleasure I'm about to wring out of you."

His teeth sank into the curve of your throat with a muffled snarl, the sting of the bite and sudden suction sending another rush of molten need pulsing through your core. Those wicked digits continued to plunder your cunt without pause, curling and dragging against the swollen walls of your channel with a ruthless rhythm meant to destroy and unmake you utterly.

"You're mine now, kitten," Kyoutani practically snarled the words against your damp flesh - his tongue tracing the throbbing pulse point and sucking harder still to raise a dark, vivid bruise. "And I'm gonna take care of this greedy pussy in all the ways no one else ever could."

A keening sob broke free from the depths of your lungs as a particularly forceful thrust sent the head of his palm grinding against the swollen bud of your clit, setting off a cascade reaction that had you thrashing and clawing against the hard expanse of his chest. Your thighs clamped tighter around Kyoutani's trim hips, desperate for more friction and depth and pressure as you chased the cresting edge of bliss rapidly coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

"So fucking good," Kyoutani practically moaned the praise, his features contorting with an agonized, feral need that somehow ratcheted the inferno burning between you even higher. "Come for me, kitten. Show me exactly what this dripping cunt needs. Who it belongs to."

That commanding growl was the final straw - sending your already-tenuous restraint crashing to ruin in the blistering wake of your release. His name spilled from your lips in a broken sob, fingers scrabbling at his flexed biceps as you clung to him like a lifeline amidst the white-hot waves of euphoria washing over you.

But Kyoutani showed no mercy - only continuing his relentless stroking and curling against the spasming clench of your walls until the last aftershocks had shuddered through your trembling limbs. The entire time, his intense focus never wavered from your flushed features, drinking in each breathless gasp and whimper with an almost reverential air.

"Fucking hell, look at how goddamn pretty you are like this," Kyoutani murmured almost to himself - the awe-tinged reverence of his voice at odds with the savage, lust-drunk glaze burning in his heavy-lidded gaze. "Never seen anything so perfect. So goddamn beautiful."

The raw emotion threading through his graveled baritone hit you with the force of a tidal wave - stoking the embers of desire reignited anew to an inferno blazing between you once more. A new shiver rippled over your skin as the calloused pads of Kyoutani's fingertips continued their feather-light tracing over the flushed, sensitive expanse of your cheekbones.

"I want to see you come apart like that for the rest of my damn life," he rasped - the possessive heat blazing behind his molten amber irises scorching every inch of you with its intensity. "And I'm about to spend the rest of this night making sure you understand exactly how serious I am about keeping this pussy for myself. Gonna fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until the only thing you can remember is my name and the feeling of my dick buried so deep inside you can't think about anything else but this moment right now."

The sheer hunger and desperation behind Kyoutani's growled vows was almost too much to process, let alone absorb in its entirety. Your breath escaped in a sharp hiss as his fingers abruptly withdrew from your hypersensitive cunt with a wet sound that made you flush all over. Before you could think to protest or react, Kyoutani's large hands dropped to the curve of your ass - palming and kneading the plush mounds with an appreciative grunt as he held you firmly in place.

"Now let's see just how much of that filthy honey this pussy can give me," he said - a low, husky growl that seemed to vibrate against every exposed inch of your skin as Kyoutani slowly lowered himself to his knees.

"Kentarou!"

His name exploded from your lips in a strangled gasp as his hands hooked the thin elastic band of your panties - yanking them down and off your trembling legs with an impatient efficiency. Before you could process the next course of his intentions, Kyoutani was hauling one of your legs over his shoulder, leaving the rest of your lower body exposed to the searing blaze of his unguarded scrutiny.

"Fuck me," Kyoutani groaned, the expletive falling from his lips with such fervent reverence it was nearly obscene. The heat radiating from his penetrating stare alone was enough to set your senses ablaze - let alone the molten slide of his palms gliding up the backs of your bare thighs and gripping at the plump swell of your ass.

"I'm not sure whether I wanna eat your cunt first and taste all that sweet honey you gave me," he practically crooned as his thumbs skated the outer seam of your labia, spreading the swollen, puffy lips with deliberate slowness that had you bucking and whining. "Or if I wanna just bury my cock inside you and watch the way this pretty pussy sucks me in deep."

Another broken, pleading whimper punched free from your lungs at the graphic imagery his words painted, stoking the flames of need raging hotter between you both with each passing moment. His calloused fingertips were already gliding back down towards the apex of your thighs, seeking out the source of your renewed slickness with an air of uncompromising focus.

"Either way," Kyoutani continued with a smug smirk twisting his lips as he traced the delicate petals of your sex - spreading and dipping shallowly just past the swollen rim to test the give and resistance there. "I'm about to get every last drop of that sweetness."

The strangled moan that burst from the depths of your chest sounded alien and broken to your own ears - a keening sound of utter debauched want and need that seemed to resonate in your very bones. Kyoutani's smirk twisted to a full, toothy grin as he watched you tremble and writhe against the wall, clearly savoring the sight of your overstimulated body struggling to withstand the sensual torture of his ministrations.

"Look at me." The growled command was underscored with an edge of unmistakable dominance that sent a new shiver racing over your skin. His fingertips continued their torturous swirling around the sensitive opening of your core, teasing the stretched entrance with a maddeningly shallow rhythm that only served to stoke the fires of need blazing inside you further.

When you could do nothing but continue to buck and whimper and mewl beneath his relentless, merciless torment, Kyoutani's other hand abruptly left its position on your ass - snapping a sharp smack against one of your asscheeks that sent a frisson of pleasure-pain ricocheting through your frame.

"I said look at me, pretty." His lips curled back to flash a canine in a feral smile as Kyoutani watched your expression contort with the delicious pain-pleasure of his punishment. "I want those pretty eyes locked on me when I finally bury my face in that soaking cunt."

The next broken, desperate sob ripped free from the depths of your lungs, even as a new wave of wetness flooded from your slit. You couldn't tear your fever-glazed gaze away from the smoldering intensity of his piercing irises, even as he slowly shifted to press a soft kiss against the inner thigh resting atop his broad shoulder.

"There we go," Kyoutani murmured with a satisfied sigh - the heat of his breath ghosting over the soaked folds of your cunt. "I want to watch every expression that passes over your face while I fuck this cunt with my tongue. While I make you beg for my dick."

Before you could manage a coherent response, the flat of his tongue suddenly delved between the swollen petals - the slick texture rasping and curling in a way that had you writhing and keening against the wall. Your hands reached down to tangle in the short hairs at the crown of his skull, seeking purchase as Kyoutani began to lavish a punishingly thorough oral assault upon your center.

Every flick, suck, and curl of his tongue had you reeling - a sensory onslaught that robbed you of the ability to breathe or process anything beyond the exquisite, sinful pleasure of his touch. Every time you managed to claw your way back towards the surface, his fingers would sink inside your dripping core to thrust and curl against the tight channel, ripping a broken sob free from your chest.

"Fuck," Kyoutani swore with a ragged groan, his mouth still pressed flush against the soaked folds - the vibration of his voice sending another shiver rippling through you. "You taste like heaven. Shit. Never tasted a sweeter cunt. Could get drunk on this."

A strangled moan tore from your throat as Kyoutani's lips abruptly latched around your throbbing clit, suckling with just the right amount of pressure and suction to have you bucking and clawing against the wall. His fingers continued to pump and curl in a punishing rhythm that threatened to unravel you utterly, all the while maintaining his merciless devouring of your soaking cunt.

Your breath punched from your lungs on a ragged gasp as Kyoutani's mouth abruptly shifted focus, his lips parting around the stretched rim of your entrance before delving deep in a single thrust. The sensation of his tongue stroking and curling deep within your clenching heat was enough to send sparks exploding behind your eyes, a fresh wave of heat washing over your senses and dragging you back towards the precipice of climax.

"Please," the broken sob ripped itself free from the depths of your chest, your voice barely recognizable under the weight of the lust and need pouring through every syllable. "I can't. I'm gonna. God. I need--"

Your babbled pleas seemed to spur Kyoutani into even more frenzied motion, his fingers and tongue working in tandem to drive you higher and higher. He drank down the fresh gush of slick released from your folds, growling against the soaked petals as his teeth scraped against the swollen folds in a way that had a violent shudder rippling through your entire frame.

"I know what you need," Kyoutani groaned as his fingers pumped and curled faster still, setting a relentless pace that had your vision blurring at the edges. "You need me. Need this."

The next high-pitched whimper that spilled free was muffled as Kyoutani surged upright - sealing his mouth over yours in a bruising glide of possession. You could taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor sharp and intoxicating and filthy in a way that only ratcheted the fires of lust blazing between you even higher.

"Gonna fuck you right now," he snarled against the abused swell of your bottom lip - his teeth grazing over the throbbing flesh before sucking it between his own in a fresh taunt. "I can't wait anymore, pretty. Can't. I have to be inside you. Now."

With one fluid motion, Kyoutani's hands left your overheated skin and dropped to his waistband, the metallic rasp of a zipper being drawn and fabric shifting audible even over the harsh, panting breaths escaping from both of your mouths. You barely had a moment to register the absence of his warmth and bulk before the hard, searing pressure of his pelvis crashed into yours, pinning you back against the wall in an inescapable cage of muscle and flesh and need.

Your lips parted in a fresh sob of ecstasy and anticipation, only for the sound to be swallowed and consumed by the fierce, unyielding crush of Kyoutani's mouth on yours once more. The blunt tip of his thick erection suddenly notched against the swollen folds, gliding along the slick seam of your cunt in a tantalizing stroke that had both of you moaning into the other's mouth.

"Please," you keened against his lips, hips arching to grind yourself along the length of his pulsing shaft and soak the velvety skin with your arousal. "Need you. Please, please, please. Need you so badly."

"God fucking damn, I love it when you beg," Kyoutani snarled with an almost vicious edge to the graveled cadence of his voice, the thick head of his cock finally catching and beginning to sink past the tight clench of your entrance. "That's it. Beg me for it. Plead for my cock to fill up this greedy cunt."

The words dissolved into a strangled groan as he sank deeper and deeper, the searing friction of his girth stretching you open further than you'd ever felt before. Kyoutani's teeth caught the swell of your bottom lip, worrying and tugging until the sting sent an electric jolt arcing directly to your core.

"You're so tight, pretty girl," he panted, his breaths coming in rough, guttural pants as he continued his gradual, excruciating pace. "Fuck. So wet. And so goddamn warm. Shit. I knew you'd feel perfect."

His arms flexed and locked against the wall, bracketing you in the cage of his massive form as Kyoutani finally buried his cock to the hilt inside your soaking heat. For a few moments, the two of you simply stayed locked together, bodies trembling and breaths mingling as you adjusted to the fullness stretching your core.

But even in the haze of lust clouding your senses, you could sense the strain vibrating through the muscles locked beneath your clutching fingertips - the way Kyoutani's jaw ground and teeth clenched against the primal urge to pound into your clenching channel. His features had twisted into an almost agonized mask, the dark slashes of his brows knitted tightly together as he focused his efforts on maintaining control.

"Kentarou," you breathed his name in a low moan - the single syllable practically dripping with unadulterated want and need and desperation. You felt the way his powerful body shuddered and twitched in response, the involuntary buck of his hips sending a fresh jolt of pleasure-pain rocketing through you both.

"Fuck," he hissed against the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the throbbing vein there in a hot glide that only heightened the feverish sensations rippling through you. "I know. God, I know, pretty. But I need to hold still for just a moment longer. Because once I start moving, I'm not stopping. Not until I've fucked this sweet pussy and marked every inch of it as mine."

The possessive edge threading through his gravelly baritone sent another shiver cascading through you, the molten tension building within your core reaching a fever pitch as you struggled to hold still and absorb the overwhelming sensation of his throbbing length sheathed fully inside you.

"I'm the one who owns this pussy," Kyoutani groaned as he rocked his hips against yours, grinding his pelvis into your own until his balls pressed against the swell of your ass. "Me, and no one else. Isn't that right, pretty girl? Say it."

The ragged moan that tumbled from your parted lips was all the answer he needed, even before the words finally spilled free.

"Yes," you cried out, nails scoring along the ridged expanse of his muscled back - the sensation seeming to drive Kyoutani closer to the edge as his entire body went rigid and trembling with the effort to hold still. "Yours. I'm yours. All yours. Please. Just fuck me."

Any remaining shred of restraint abruptly disintegrated at your breathless, desperate entreaty - sending Kyoutani's hips crashing into yours in a single, brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. The searing friction and drag of his thick cock filling you again and again was unlike anything you'd ever experienced, the sheer force and power behind his movements threatening to shatter your sanity.

"Shit," Kyoutani grunted in a raw, hoarse growl - the sound seeming to reverberate in his chest as his hands shifted to grip your ass tighter, angling you to meet his relentless plundering thrusts. "Gonna. Fuck. Gonna breed this sweet cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

The lewd, depraved filth spilling from his mouth sent another violent shudder coursing through your frame, your hips rising to meet the punishing pace he'd set without faltering. The friction and force behind his strokes were just on the cusp of painful, driving you towards the precipice of your release in a ruthless, inexorable tide that left no room for thought or logic or sense.

All that remained was the mind-numbing sensation of him stretching and filling you, again and again - a ceaseless, consuming rhythm that promised to shatter and remake you entirely.

"You take me so well," Kyoutani's voice rasped directly into your ear, the hot press of his sweat-slicked torso molding into your own until you could barely distinguish where his body ended and yours began. "Like you were fucking made for my cock. For me. So good. Such a perfect little slut."

His next thrust had your vision going hazy and black, the thick head of his dick grinding and pumping into a spot that sent fresh lightning pulses of pleasure-pain arcing up your spine. Another strangled scream tore itself free from the depths of your lungs - the only coherent sounds capable of escaping past the frantic, panting breaths escaping from between your swollen lips.

"Fuck, you look so good like this, beautiful," Kyoutani crooned the praise, his voice barely a thread above a guttural snarl. "Bent over for me and begging to be fucked and bred like a bitch in heat."

His tongue traced the curve of your ear in a sinful, teasing sweep, sending another frisson of need shuddering through your overheated frame. A ragged, sobbing moan clawed its way free from your throat as he continued the torturous torment of his hips slamming into your own - each thrust sinking deeper and harder until you couldn't tell if the sounds filling the air were your own or Kyoutani's.

"Tell me how much you need it, pretty," Kyoutani growled, the sharp scrape of his canines against the vulnerable column of your throat sending a new shudder coursing through you. "How much you love taking this cock and letting me fuck this filthy little pussy however I want. How much you want me to breed this gorgeous cunt until I've filled you up with my cum."

His hand had slipped between your bodies at some point during the relentless assault, calloused fingertips tracing over the slippery, swollen folds until they settled over the swollen bud of your clit. Every stroke and flick sent another shockwave of pleasure careening through you - driving you towards the precipice with the same single-minded focus that characterized every action and movement on the court.

"Say it," he demanded in a husky rasp that scraped your senses raw - his pace becoming ever-faster, ever-harder, ever-more-relentless until it was impossible to process the sensory overload.

"Kentarou," the plea broke from your throat in a raw sob, the only sound capable of passing through your swollen lips. Your head lolled against his broad shoulder as his fingers began to circle your clit with an increased pressure and tempo, driving you towards the inevitable fall with every pump and grind and thrust of his cock buried within your cunt.

"Let me hear you say it," Kyoutani snarled, his hips stuttering and jerking as the punishing pace became ever-more-frantic, ever-more-erratic, ever-more-wild. His teeth sank into the curve of your throat with a fresh growl, the sting of his canines ripping another strangled cry from your lungs as the crest of pleasure rapidly coiled tighter and tighter within you.

"Tell me you're mine."

The words were punctuated by a single, brutal thrust that had your vision whiting out, your back bowing against the wall and legs seizing around Kyoutani's trim waist. His name tore itself free from the depths of your throat in a wild, feral scream that shattered the relative quiet of the empty gym. Your nails scored across the clothed expanse of his back as every muscle and tendon in your body drew tight and taut with the overwhelming flood of euphoria sweeping over you.

"There we go," he rumbled against your throat, the vibration of his voice sending fresh sparks careening along your nerves. "There's my sweet girl. Fuck. Feels so fucking good when you come all over my cock like that."

Another guttural moan was torn free from the depths of his chest as his hands clamped around the curve of your hips, holding you steady as he continued to pound into your quivering, slick channel. His grip was iron-clad, the bruising force behind each stroke and thrust sending fresh shocks of pleasure-pain ricocheting through your already-overstimulated system.

"You feel too fucking good," Kyoutani snarled against your neck, the ragged edge to his voice and the way his hips were stuttering and losing their rhythm indicating he was rapidly approaching the brink of his own release. "Shit. Gonna make me cum."

His fingers returned to your clit with a renewed focus, the rough texture of his callouses grinding into the sensitive bundle of nerves in a way that had you crying and writhing beneath the assault. Every part of you was aflame, a fever-bright inferno burning through your veins and threatening to consume you whole.

"Gonna breed this cunt full, pretty," Kyoutani swore against the hollow of your throat, the guttural rasp to his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Pump you full until you can feel every drop spilling out of your slutty little hole. Fuck. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Your only response was a low, broken moan, the sound seeming to spur Kyoutani's hips into an even more punishing, frenzied pace that threatened to break you in half. The way his cock was dragging against the spasming clench of your walls was an exquisite brand of torture - the friction and depth and force behind his thrusts pushing you beyond the point of sanity or reason.

"Fuck, look at how much you're gushing all over my dick," he practically purred the depraved observation, the filthy words falling from his lips as effortlessly as the sweat pouring off his brow. "Such a sweet, filthy little slut for me. Only me."

Another broken, wordless cry ripped free from your lungs as his fingertips redoubled their efforts on your hypersensitive clit, sending sparks and bolts of electricity crackling along your nerve endings and searing directly to your core. It was impossible to process the magnitude of the sensations he was wringing from you, each fresh stroke and touch threatening to send you tumbling over the edge yet again.

"I know you're close," Kyoutani growled, his features twisting into a feral grin as his tongue traced the delicate shell of your ear in a maddening taunt. "Can't wait to feel this perfect pussy clamping down on my dick when I breed you full. You'd like that, wouldn't you, beautiful?"

The words were punctuated by another harsh buck of his hips, the searing, velvety drag of his thick length dragging against the hypersensitive walls of your core in a way that threatened to rip the air from your lungs. Before you could even muster a coherent response, his teeth sank into the curve of your shoulder with a possessive snarl - the sharp pain-pleasure of his canines scraping against your skin sending another rush of molten need flooding from your cunt.

"Cum with me," Kyoutani's voice had gone husky and rough with desire, the ragged edge to his breathless pants betraying the effort it took to maintain the brutal, unforgiving pace he'd set. His fingers continued their relentless swirling and circling over the sensitive bud of your clit, driving you towards the precipice in a way that threatened to steal the last shreds of coherency from your mind.

"Please, please, please," the pleas tumbled from your swollen, parted lips in a ceaseless mantra, each syllable falling free as quickly as your breath punched from your lungs with every thrust and grind. You couldn't even register the words or sounds escaping from your throat, the only coherent thought that registered was the need to fall into the white-hot abyss of bliss looming ahead.

"God, fuck," Kyoutani groaned against the curve of your shoulder, the muscles of his powerful arms and back locking tight and tense as his entire frame seized and trembled. His next thrust sent the head of his throbbing cock grinding against the hyper-sensitive spot buried deep within you, the added stimulation pushing you over the edge once more.

"Cum for me," he snarled, his hips slamming into yours one last time before the searing, wet rush of his release flooded your clenching walls. A broken sob clawed its way from your throat as the molten heat pulsing and throbbing against the swollen, sensitized walls sent you tumbling into the white-hot waves of release, drowning beneath the overwhelming tidal surge crashing through you both.

For several long moments, neither of you moved - frozen in place as the tremors wracking your frames slowly eased. Kyoutani's hands were still clenched around the curve of your hips, keeping your lower body trapped flush against his own while his cock continued to pulse and twitch within your core. His breath ghosted over the sweat-slicked skin of your neck in heavy, panting exhales, the rapid rise and fall of his broad chest matching the erratic tempo of your own.

"Shit," Kyoutani grunted, his voice raspy and raw, almost hoarse in a way that made a fresh shiver ripple through you. "Fucking hell, pretty girl. I think you just drained my damn balls dry."

Your breath left in a high-pitched wheeze as he abruptly stepped back, his cock slipping free from the dripping, overstimulated channel. Before you could think to register the sudden emptiness, his fingers had already dipped between the soaked, swollen folds, circling and teasing and taunting the still-quivering entrance.

"Look at all this cum leaking out of your pretty pussy," he practically crooned the words, the dark edge to his voice making it clear exactly what he was planning to do. "We can't have any of this going to waste, now can we? That'd be such a shame. When I've gone to all the trouble of filling you up just the way you needed."

Before you could summon the wherewithal to reply, Kyoutani had already dropped to his knees, his shoulders and broad back flexing as his hands guided your trembling legs to rest atop them. The heated blaze of his gaze swept over the flushed, swollen folds of your center - drinking in the sight of his thick, pearly essence mixing with the slickness still clinging to the tender petals.

"Now let's see how many times I can make you cum for me, kitten."

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #kyoutani kentarou #kyoutani smut #kyoutani x reader #kyoutani x reader smut #haikyuu kyoutani

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arcielee · 6 months

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Fare Well

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Summary: You visit Aegon after another council meeting ends. Paring: Aegon Targaryen x female!reader Word Count: 1600+ Warnings: Reader AFAB, knifeplay, object penetration, kissing, p in v, creampie, using intercourse as an escape from reality. Author’s Note: Listen, the new trailer came out and our muses are buzzing again. This smutty piece was inspired by this story by @valeskafics as well as this beautiful edit by the beautiful @bucknastysbabe. The title is from Hozier, as you all should come to expect now, and this can also be read on ao3. This is dedicated to @f4ll-for-you, my wonderful Tumblr kindred spirit who made me into the Aegon girly I am today. 💜 A huge thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for beta reading and making sure this all made sense. 💜 Enjoy!

“What troubles you, your grace?”

You had remained in the shadows and listened to the voices grow louder, though still muted through the walls, with their worries of what was to come next. They exited one by one, the morose men chosen to serve the king’s council, with the lord commander of the kingsguard escorting the queen dowager donned in green, her eyes downcast and her expression etched with her perpetual worry since her lord husband had passed. The lord hand was the last to leave, his face lined and wearied, his slow gate returning him to the tower where he would–as Aegon confided to you–continue to pen letters to garner support across the realm.

It was only then that you dared to enter the room. You saw Aegon was seated at the head of the table, his violet gaze placed on the Valyrian dagger in his hands, the iron and rubies that once belonged to the Conqueror gleaming above him.

The sun was streaking through the windows behind, giving him a kingly glow. His hair was a shade lighter and his cheeks sunkissed from the hours aback Sunfyre; despite the threat beyond the horizon, you knew that Aegon enjoyed patrolling the skies with his brothers.

It was these little confessions that he shared with you in the clandestine moments stolen within the walls of the Red Keep. He told you how he wished to be distracted, to allow a reprieve for his mind that weighed heavy with this anointed crown, and you were just this distraction, flesh and blood pulsing with your desire.

It was then he looked up to see you still shyly posted in the doorway. “You seemed troubled, your grace,” you repeated with kindness, with concern.

“I am now always troubled, it feels,” his smile was forced. “It seems to be something that comes with the weight of this.” He removed the crown and it echoed dully as he dropped it on the table. “But perhaps you can serve your king.”

Your foot pushed the door until it closed soundly, and you took a step towards him. For a moment you saw the boy you had grown up with, mischievous and smirking, peering up at you from beneath the title of king. “This is why I am here,” your reply was sultry, and you saw how the black began to swallow the color of his eyes. “To serve, your grace.”

Aegon sheathed the dagger and set it aside his crown before slouching back to spread his legs wider in the ornate chair he sat. Your stomach tightened at the sight of his thick outline against his thigh, pressing through his slacks, and you felt the flutter of that desire trilling your spine, spilling back into your veins.

Your heart vibrated beneath and his lips curled upwards when he noticed where your eyes fell. His large hand patted his thigh.

The gesture summoned you and you moved within his arms reach. He pulled you onto his lap, his face burying into the curve of your neck with a groan, a deep inhale that tickled. “Your grace,” you giggled, squirming in his hold, your blood warming your skin.

“It is only us now,” he murmured against your skin, “and all I wish now is to tear away these layers, lay you on this table, and have what lies beneath your finery.”

“You would not dare,” you whispered, your eyes bright.

His fingers dug into your hip while his other hand snaked under your thighs to lift you up from his seat. You giggled again, your arm quick to wrap around his neck to brace for his step forward as he set you on the edge of the table. His hands pawed at your layers, searching to find the dagger and he began to slice through your fabric.

Your surprise spilled from your lips. “Aegon!”

He did not falter, but sheathed it and set it back down so his hands could grab fistfuls, tearing away the fabric to allow you room to part your thighs and welcome him. Your hands moved from his chest and combed through his hair, smoothing the indent left behind from his crown. He hummed from your touch, his hands moving from your hips and following your curves to your backside, pulling you closer so he could tilt his chin forward and capture your lips.

His kiss devoured you wholly, pulling the air from your lungs with the dizzyingly desperation of his lips against your own. Your arms wrapped again around his neck and you rolled your hips for friction against the warmth he emitted through his royal garb, your fingers clawing at the fabric.

You could feel his smile against your lips, his fingers returning to his hold on your hips. The outside of his palm rested on the dip and his thumbs pressed to the bone, eliciting a pleasure that jolted through you. You moaned softly and his mouth broke away, wet kisses that now trailed along your jaw, his teeth nipping at the slope of your neck.

“Aegon,” you could not help but whine, and you tightened your legs around his hips.

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable, flushed. For a moment you were lost in his heady gaze, only brought back once you felt his hand trailing the detailing of your bodice and pressing until you laid back on the table. His other hand retrieved the dagger once more and your smallclothes were cut away, the air crisp against the slick between your thighs.

“So wet for me already,” he clucked his tongue, “and I have barely begun.”

Your stuttered response only further goaded him. His brow cocked. “What was that?”

“Please,” you licked your lips. “Touch me, Aegon. Please.”

The darkness in his eyes glittered with the sunlight, and his satisfaction curled across his square jaw. “No. Not quite yet.”

Before you could protest, you felt the pressure of something that was smooth, almost cool to the touch. You peered down to see the sheathed dagger pressed sideways to your bare cunt, the ruby stone sliding against the slick, the blossom of your arousal allowing him a circular motion of the gemstone against the bundle of nerves.

You shuddered in response, your skin rising on your thighs and chest, and your head fell back, your hands pressing flat on the polished wood to anchor yourself. The unfamiliar touch began to build a familiar sensation, something that fluttered throughout, catching your exhale in your throat.

“Aegon,” you cried, his name spilling sickly sweet from your lips, an endearment with the desperation of your tone.

“Let me,” he soothed, his voice rasped with his intent focus.

He moved the hilt and its decorative ridges rubbed along your swollen nerves. You squealed with the touch and then the intrusion, feeling his palm press to the inside of your thigh. “Trust me,” he whispered, his eyes boring between your thighs. You relaxed to his touch, feeling the curve of the handle pressing sweetly within you.

It sparked lights before your eyes and Aegon was pleased. He moved his thumb to replace where the gemstone rubbed enticingly before, matching the tandem of the hilt that now pulled you upwards to the prior peak and then past. It filled your chest, a bursting euphoria that pulsed your walls around the handle.

“Sȳz riña,” his voice low with his praise. Good girl.

Your head lifted, drowsy, and you saw him touch the glossy shine that now covered the hilt, his fingers showing the sticky web of your climax. His eyes met with yours as he showed you, and his eyebrows raised when you pushed to sit up, your hand gently covering his own to pull it towards your lips, licking the ruby and tasting yourself.

It clattered to the cobblestone and his free hand now grabbed the nape of your neck, his lips finding yours with his returned desperation. Fingers collided to loosen his drawstrings, your hands pulling his cock free and guiding his blunt head to press against your silk entrance.

His large hand wrapped around the base and you cant your hips, angling yourself so his cock can slowly sink into your wet warmth. You mewled from the delicious stretch and he shuddered once he was fully buried between your thighs. Aegon paused, stealing a kiss, a taste of tenderness on his lips as he began to rock against you.

It started slow with a low groan spilling from his kiss swollen slips as he watched his cock disappear inside you again and again. He savored the lewd sounds, your soft cries as he pushed deeper within you, your fingers grasping to hold yourself upright, to remain as close to him as possible.

Your body still simmered with your prior release and it did not take much to build again. His hips snapped against yours with the wet sound of skin to skin, and your walls began to flutter. It is a breathless chorus, your soft gasps and his low groan, your pleasure pulling with a creamy spill of passion that tightened around him, his cock pulsing hotly within you.

You fell back to your elbows, trying to catch your breath, and Aegon slumped over, his damp brow pressing to yours, the mess of his golden waves falling across your face. His scent washed over you, exotic oils that were sent as gifts and the sheen of sweat on his skin.

The council chambers are noiseless now, and you hold still under the dimming candles lit for the chandelier above. It is another clandestine moment stolen, where your hearts thrummed in unison before slowing back to their regular pace, pulling you back to the heavy reality that settled in the quiet.

It lingered in the shadows, the faraway thought, the threat beyond the horizon, the echoed worries returning of what will come next.

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#house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #aegon x reader #aegon x female!reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #female!reader #fare well

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skzdarlings · 8 months

Text

verisimilitude ; hyunjin x reader ; one-shot

masterlist.

( READ ON AO3. )

You are a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon. Your best friend is an eccentric pretty boy. You accidentally send him an explicit video of yourself. What's the worst that can happen?

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: romantic comedy. best friends to lovers. curly-haired reader because mood. accidental sexting. accidental voyeurism. sexual tension. resolved sexual tension. very explicit sexual content. not so much dom/sub but hyunjin explicitly prefer control. sexual discovery. very horny leads lol. (word count: 19500 words.)

You look like Hyunjin’s lawyer again.

Your best friend has gravitated to a somewhat more punk persona in recent years. You say somewhat because you are not sure it runs deeper than aesthetic, though he would probably be forgiven on account of his perfect face. His good looks combined with his natural charisma lets him get away with most things.

His vibrant red hair catches the sunlight like a painted flame, a perfect stroke of red against the beige canvas of the art gallery’s exterior. He is slouching against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, squinting in the light. He looks like a rather put upon a vampire given the dark garb and eyeliner.

Then he turns his head and sees you. You are wearing one of your usual blazers and modest skirts, your untameable mess of curls twisted into an updo that is fighting (and losing) against the wind. You try not to feel too preposterous, peeling bits of hair out of your mouth as you approach him.

He smiles. Some people think his smiles look a bit smarmy and you suppose they are not wrong, his lips perpetually quirked like a punchline just occurred to him, but you know your best friend well. Despite the intimidating ring of dark eye-make up, his eyes are alight with a great deal of affection. If you were prone to sentimentality, you might concede a heart flutter.

You clear your throat and march ahead. He saunters up the path to you. You meet halfway.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says.

He is the only person allowed to call you that.

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say. You lack his playful charm so you do not have a nickname to return. You are more comfortable around Hyunjin than anyone else on earth, and you are still awkward around him. “Thank you for the invitation,” you say. “I appreciate you might have otherwise wanted the time to yourself, so I hope I am not imposing by accepting.”

He laughs. When all you do is blink at him, stone-faced, he covers his mouth with a delicate touch of his long fingers, still smirking behind them.

“Sorry, why wouldn’t I want you to say yes?” he asks. “We always go to the new exhibitions together.”

You tuck back an errant curl only for another to whip across your brow.

“Well,” you say, tucking that one back too. “Since I am temporarily living with you, I thought my company might grow wearisome in a way it usually does not. Familiarity breeding contempt and all that.”

Though you state this observation with your usual pragmatic detachment, you are very insecure about it. You gave this risk a great deal of consideration prior to moving in with Hyunjin. You are only staying in his apartment’s spare bedroom for a few months while your disaster of a townhouse undergoes repairs (the upstairs bathroom flooded again), but you have never lived with Hyunjin before. You are aware of your short-comings and you were very worried that your best friend was going to tire of you within a week.

It has been a month now and he has shown no signs of despising your existence, but it is still best to brace oneself for every eventuality.

He just smiles and puts both hands in his pockets.

“Are you getting sick of me?” he asks.

Another ringlet whips across your face.

“Good grief,” you say, frantically pushing it aside. “Of course not! How could anyone ever get sick of you?” What a preposterous thought. Hyunjin just has to wink for the universe to re-arrange itself. People adore him. He is handsome and funny and charming and talented and intelligent. You have known him for most of your life and you are still unearthing his many intricate layers. As if you could ever grow tired of him. “I think that’s the most foolish thing you’ve ever said,” you say with complete sincerity.

He laughs some more, tossing his head back so all that red hair flutters behind him. The wind co-operates with his hair, of course, working in tandem with the sunlight to flatter him.

“Are you sure? I’ve said a lot of foolish things,” he says.

You sputter when a curl flies into your mouth. You push it away.

“Yes, well,” you say. “That much is true too.”

He looks at you for a moment. You can’t imagine why. The sunlight is beaming right in your eyes and the wind is beating you to a pulp. Maybe you look so hideous that he is contemplating a means of escape.

Then one hand lifts out of his pocket, long fingers reaching for you. It is very unexpected. You stare into his face, a stoic mask concealing your confusion. His eyes do not meet yours, his gaze on a loose curl. He is gentle in the way he scoops it up and smoothly tucks it behind your ear. A shiver erupts under the brush of his fingertips, that heart flutter loosing itself when his touch lingers.

Then he smiles and puts his hand back in his pocket.

“Sweet?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want a sweet?” He whips an open bag of gummies out of his pocket.

“Oh.” You look at the bag. “Um. No.”

“Are you sure?” He shakes the bag. “It’s your favourite.”

“Oh.” Your attention went awry with the race of your heart but you do observe the candy is one you enjoy. “Okay. Thank you.” You take a few and pop them in your mouth.

He upturns the bag over his mouth, finishing off the sugar. You hope your eyes don’t widen at the flick of his tongue. Oh, it really is cumbersome when your nether region gets an idea about Hyunjin. You try to ignore the heat down there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, already striding away. The man is at least 80% per cent leg so it puts him ahead rather quickly.

You are too refined to scamper-and-scurry, but you might pitter-and-patter to catch up.

You are able to lose yourself in the art exhibition. You and Hyunjin share a meal afterward, discussing everything at length. Hyunjin is a little quieter than usual so you apologize for speaking too much. He is gazing at you, his chin is propped in his hand. Surprise flickers in his expression when you apologize, but he recovers, waving his hand like it’s no matter.

You return to his home and separate for the evening. You to your studies, him to his evening work-out.

You are in the apartment’s quaint living room when Hyunjin gets back from the gym. He is an absolute sight, bare-faced, his red hair yanked into a half-ponytail. There is a subtle, rolling musculature to his arms, proudly displayed in his sleeveless shirt, and he is glistening with sweat from top to bottom. It should be gross. You pride yourself on cleanliness.

But good grief. He is gorgeous.

You are sitting cross-legged on the couch, comfortably dressed down in a sweatshirt and pyjama pants. You peek at him over the top of your book only to find him already staring at you. He is rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, his arm flexed. When he catches you looking, his lips pull into a lazy smile.

You duck behind your book again. It is a poor shield, or maybe he is a cunning adversary, because your heart keeps racing anyway.

“Whatcha reading?” he asks. You can hear his slow approach. The towel is tossed somewhere.

“A book,” you say.

“Funny,” he says. He is in front of you now. You have no time to strategize before he plucks the book out of your hand and holds it over his head.

“Hyunjin!” You muster all the indignant attitude you can. “That’s not funny. We’re not children anymore. Return my book at once.”

“I want a hug first,” he says, his full lips in a silly pout.

“Out of the question.” You hope you do not sound as flustered as you feel. “You’re disgusting. Look at the state of you.”

“Please?” He blinks his long lashes at you.

You stand up and try to look imposing, hands on your hips. His smile does not diminish. He waves the book in the air.

You lunge, diving at the book and failing spectacularly. He holds it out of reach, laughing, then he tries to wrap you up in a hug. He smells like sweat and exertion and it makes you think of sex. This is sufficiently startling enough to cause a fumble. You spill backwards, a frantic hand thoughtlessly grasping for an anchor. Your fingers hook in the neck of his shirt which has the predictable outcome of dragging him with you onto the couch.

His more athletic reflexes kick in, just enough that he drops the book and catches himself with his hands. He successively suspends his weight above you, which is nice, but you still thump your head on the arm of the couch, which is less nice.

“Are you okay?” he asks when you hiss and grab your head. The laughter has left his voice, replaced with genuine concern.

“No,” you say, petulantly. “A horrible sweaty man stole my book and beat me up.”

He laughs, a twinkling sound that enchants you despite everything.

“Poor baby,” he says. “That sounds so disgusting. Will a hug help…?”

“Don’t you dare—hmmf!” He lowers himself and squishes you. You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you, partially because he swipes his nose on your neck and it tickles, largely because his laughter is infectious. “Oh,” you say, pushing his face away. “You are a horrible person.”

He giggles with boyish mirth. It is at odds with the man he is, all hard planes and sturdy lines, an unfamiliar twinkle in his dark eyes. You look back at him, at a loss for words. Even if you were the sort of person to confess attraction, you would surely seem strange for finding his dishevelled appearance so desirable.

Finally, you push him, diverting your gaze with an eye roll.

“All right,” you say. “That’s quite enough now. There’s a shower at your disposal and I recommend you make use of it sooner than later. Go on, get.”

He obliges, but not without a cheeky kiss to your forehead. It flusters you more than a chaste kiss should.

He just winks, because of course the charmer is unaffected by such an innocent touch. Hyunjin is too gushy and romantic to womanize, but he is certainly liberal with his sexual appetite. You had the displeasure of running into a one-night stand your first weekend here. Hyunjin left for work and let her sleep, assuming she would show herself out. She was a pretty chatterbox and she bounded into the kitchen to strike up a very one-sided conversation with you in your bathrobe.

He did apologize for that. He knows you do not like unexpected visitors at the best of times, never mind first thing in the morning, and certainly never mind ones he knew intimately. Fortunately, it was the first and last time you made scrambled eggs for his hook-up.

You are not in the habit of hook-ups, to say the very least, preferring a serving of scrambled eggs for one. You had one boyfriend a few years ago but he was not the sort of man to tackle you onto the couch in a sweaty, flirtatious tangle. You would have bopped him on the nose for trying, in fact. Hyunjin really does get away with everything.

Your nethers are getting ideas again. The territory below your belt is usually well-behaved but unfortunately it lacks any sense when it comes to Hyunjin. More time spent in proximity appears to be worsening its condition.

You assume a blank face in the hopes of concealing any trace of arousal, watching Hyunjin amble his sweaty way to the bathroom.

Oh dear. You are very wound up. Something will have to be done or you will never sleep tonight.

You are blessedly granted an opportunity to satisfy your baser urges when Hyunjin emerges fully dressed for an evening out. Some friends are at a bar down the street and they invited Hyunjin to join them. Hyunjin tries to cajole you into joining him, promising it’s just a few drinks and teasing that your book won’t go anywhere, but your book is not how you intend to pass the time alone so his encouragement does not tempt you.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, shrugging on a leather vest. His back is to you so you openly admire his form, his arms on display, his long legs, his ringed fingers as they gather his hair to tie in a knot. He turns around before leaving, giving you one last finger-wiggle wave and a bounce of his eyebrows.

He looks sinfully good. You hope you look casual. Innocently awaiting a quiet evening.

Fifteen minutes later you are sitting in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, admiring yourself in a white satin babydoll. Flaws like frizzy curls or unflattering shapes seem insignificant in the soft lighting and lingerie. Your curls seem curlier, your face lovelier, your body more tempting than ever.

Though the idea of pursuing a real fling is mortifying, you lament the lack of company in an abstract way. You feel pretty and ready and wound up. When such a fancy strikes, the best form of satisfaction is found in self-appreciation.

The taboo of filming yourself always triples your arousal. Even if there is no real audience, you can’t help but feel regarded.

Eyes closed, phone camera filming, you imagine a certain pair of dark eyes on you. You make the vaguest attempt to think of something else, peripherally aware that you shouldn’t fantasize about your best friend like this, but the attempt is useless. It will always be Hyunjin. Hyunjin with his fiery red hair, his smirks, his expressive brows and dark eyes. Hyunjin’s hands, his fluid hips, his athleticism. Hyunjin in black and leather, so contrary to your modest simplicity. Hyunjin sweaty and raw and determined, pinning you under him.

Hyunjin, the person you know and like and love more than anything.

You lift the babydoll and twist, filming yourself through the mirror, showing where a thick toy disappears inside of you. You rock a little, so wet you can hear it, every nerve tingling as you become someone else in your reflection. With the apartment to yourself, you don’t restrain any noises, especially when you sit back and fuck yourself with the toy. You stop filming because you need that hand to finish, but you are so close that it only takes a few touches to climax.

You slump back, satisfied for a while, then a little embarrassed. You have a quick shower then climb into bed where you can’t help but watch your video. You imagine a particular someone else watching it and it winds you up all over again. You are still wet and sensitive, your fingers slipping smoothly into your shorts. Your put the phone down and think of Hyunjin’s long fingers, his breath on your neck and his lips grazing your skin as he works his lovely hand inside you.

When you are finished, truly finished, you feel momentarily miserable in your loneliness. You try to imagine a version of yourself that went with Hyunjin to the bar, but even that fantasy only gets you so far. Nothing would have happened. Nothing has ever happened.

Hyunjin interrupts your wallowing stream of self-pity. He texts you a rather exasperated-looking selfie, captioning it with, I miss you, I’d rather be at home.

It makes you smile. It is probably foolish, but suppressing it is useless so you surrender to the warm glow in your chest.

You text back a heart. He replies, you never told me what you were reading. He must be truly bored if he is texting about your books, but you dutifully reply like there is nothing unusual about the question. He sends back a smiling emoji and a string of hearts.

You fall asleep after that. You wake in the morning to a slew of missed text messages, Hyunjin insisting that he is having the worst night of his life because you didn’t come with him. This is nonsense, of course, but he attacks you with an arsenal of teary-eyed emojis so you send an obligatory heart his way. You are too sleepy to formulate a rejoinder, much less type one, so it will have to suffice.

You click through your phone to wake up, still foggy after exhausting all notifications. You open your photo album and find your video from last night. You click on it just as a message alert swings down. You instinctively swipe it away, but your clumsy finger opens the messenger. You click around a little haphazardly, finger flying everywhere.

After a bit of sleepy swiping, you close everything then check the message. The text you just swiped was from Hyunjin, some goofy good morning remark with a squinty-eyed selfie under it. Hyunjin does his make-up so severely these days so you like his softer, bare-faced selfies, especially because you know he sends them to no one else. He will post elaborate photos all over his social media, but the simple stuff is for you.

But you have no time to enjoy the selfie, because you are distracted by your own unwitting reply.

Oh no.

You snap up so quickly that it nearly causes whiplash. You are wide awake now, staring at the paused video of you in a white satin babydoll.

You slap a hand over your mouth. For a long moment, all you can do is stare. Your head feels fuzzy, a radiating aura of fantastical insanity clouding your periphery. Then you realize it is actually just your hair, because you fell asleep so suddenly and didn’t put on your bonnet.

You look in the mirror. You look like someone electrocuted you. Fitting, because that’s what you feel like.

Your phone buzzes. In your silent but sublime mania, you dropped your phone facedown on the blanket. You are tempted to hurl the demonic device across the room but that will solve nothing.

You pick up the phone. This is probably what execution feels like.

Hyunjin, perpetually artistic in every capacity, even the literary, summarizes the exchange with one poetic text:

You fling yourself facedown on the bed and kick your legs like a petulant child. The sky does not open, you are not struck by lightning, and the earth does not gobble you up, so you roll over and shakily type a reply.

That was an accident, you write. Surprisingly, once you start typing, it is hard to stop. You continue:

Oh my good gracious, Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, I am so sorry. I cannot apologize to you enough.

I assure you that was a complete accident.

I would never accost you so unsuspectingly with unprovoked licentious content.

An ellipses appears in the corner, Hyunjin typing a reply. It feels like your stomach has folded in on itself. You lay there with your hand cupped over it, willing yourself to explode. But no, it would be very rude to explode in Hyunjin’s spare bedroom. Bad enough you have attacked him with your inappropriate spank fodder, it would be uncouth to make him clean your spattered guts off the wall.

Hyunjin finally replies, that makes sense… you aren’t the unprovoked licentious content type usually…

I assure you I am not, you reply. I keep these videos to myself. I would never intentionally spring them on you.

There’s more than one?? he replies, and you are mortified all over again. Maybe you should just explode after all.

I assure you I will keep those where they are, you reply. I cannot apologize enough. If you want me to leave, I will pack my things immediately. You are not one for extreme emotion, but you feel an unfamiliar stabbing in your eyes. You realize with horror that it is the threat of tears as you imagine Hyunjin banishing you from his life forever. Other people come and go but there is only one Hyunjin. He is irreplaceable in your esteem, even if he dresses like a goth Las Vegas showgirl.

His replies come flying in, one after the other:

Whoa whoa

it’s okay

calm down

pretty girl hey hey hey

I don’t want you going anywhere

You take a breath and calm yourself. You do Hyunjin a great disservice by thinking he would destroy your friendship over an accident. You blame your embarrassment for your poor rationality.

I should be apologizing to you, he says. He continues swiftly:

I kinda clicked on it…?

I didn’t know what it was. But I stopped once I did

I feel really bad

See baby now we’re both embarrassed idiots <3

You can’t help but laugh, just a little, the entire mishap suddenly comically preposterous. You smile fondly at your phone. The unexpected address of baby gives you a heart flutter, but then the rest of it makes you pause. A different embarrassment creeps into the corner of your brain, something gross and mean that interprets his words ungenerously. Stopping would be the gentlemanly thing to do, so you should commend his restraint. Still, some half-insane part of you is offended that the only emotion it invoked in him was “bad”.

It made him feel bad. Goodness. Talk about an ego blow.

The least you can do is soothe his conscience. You have already put your foot in your mouth, not to mention toys in unspeakable places, so you figure another penetrative misstep cannot hurt the situation. You write, I don’t mind you watching it. I just feel horrific for sending it in the first place. I really am sorry.

The ellipses appears. Then disappears. Then appears. Then disappears. Then appears. Then disappears.

You start to wonder if you should check on him. He is just one room over, after all. But you would rather explode once and for all than face him right now.

The buzzer goes off in the main room, signalling a visitor outside. Hyunjin finally texts, one sec. Then you hear him clamouring around in the next room. Hyunjin is very graceful when he deigns to apply himself but other times he has the equilibrium of an overgrown gazelle. All those limbs clatter around his bedroom and you think he knocks a lamp over.

It sounds like the visitor is just a package delivery. You leave him to his devices. In the face of chaos, routine is a reliable companion. You get up to dress yourself for the day. Your hair is trying to force its way into a new dimension so it should take a while to fix.

Everything will be fine.

Everything is fine until it is not. Well, Hyunjin’s complexion is red as his hair when you meet face-to-face, but he recovers with an expected degree of poise and equanimity. Despite your own internal chaos, you feign a similar indifference.

Verisimilitude, you tell yourself. Pretend everything is fine and everything will be fine.

You think there might be an undercurrent of awkwardness to your interactions, but your social ineptitude makes it difficult to discern. Your usual frankness fails as deliberately enquiring after Hyunjin’s opinion would consequently highlight the very issue you are striving to ignore. Verisimilitude means nothing if you look him in the eye and ask if your pussy has made the friendship awkward.

After a few days of polite camaraderie, you opt to solve your problems by running away. You inform Hyunjin you will be occupied with a research project and thus mostly absent for the duration of its completion. By the time you emerge from the depths of the university library, hopefully this entire embarrassing situation will be forgotten.

You throw yourself into your academic distraction. A truly comprehensive research project encompasses obstacles, minute quandaries you inevitably resolve, but this time it feels like there are no answers to be found. No resolutions, no conclusions.

Your anxiety is ultimately exacerbated. Even your dreams suffer. You wake multiple nights in a row from nightmares caused by stress. Your usual pragmatic thoughtfulness abandons you in the dark, every shadow just another terror waiting to unleash itself.

You wake from yet another nightmare. Your heart is palpitating and you are too hot under your covers. You kick to freedom and swing out of bed, whipping your silk bonnet onto the floor in a rare display of aggression. You are frustrated with your seemingly inescapable burdens. You want to pick up your phone and text Hyunjin despite the late hour, but that is the one thing you vehemently cannot do right now.

You sigh and leave bed. It is the middle of the night so you cannot start the day, but maybe a glass of water will refresh you.

It seems your friend had the same idea. Hyunjin is puttering around the kitchen when you stumble into the soft golden lamplight.

“Hey,” he says, not unfriendly but maybe a little uncertain.

“Hello,” you duly reply.

You are definitely awake now. Hyunjin is standing there wearing a pair of black boxers and a t-shirt. His red hair is loose around his bare face, unkempt but somehow still charming. He is so effortlessly beautiful. You feel like a mongrel in your baggy shirt and panties, your hair down like a messy lion mane.

You try not to stare at him, meeting his gaze politely only to find him blinking quite wildly, a stuttering breath spilling over his full lips. He clamps his mouth shut and returns your stare, smiling a thin smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

It is a thoughtless query, no doubt. The sort of inane question one poses because decorum dictates it is appropriate chatter. Are you okay. Yes, how are you.

But you are looking at the beautiful and completely unattainable man you are so irrevocably in love with, and you feel horrible and disgusting, and you sent an embarrassing video that somehow humiliated him even more than you, and even your reliable books and academic joys are lacking these days.

You can count on one hand the number of times you have cried over the years. It is not something that comes easily to you. You are not made of stone, despite the occasional lambaste at your expense, but your emotions seldom manifest according to the unspoken rules of human conduct. But right now your eyes strain and your throat feels rough. You sniff and shake your head.

“No,” you say. “I’m not okay.”

A single tear falls. From you, that is practically a waterfall.

Hyunjin snaps out of whatever trance had him so enthralled. You cannot see him clearly through your watery eyes, but you feel his hands as they wrap around your arms. Hyunjin is an artist, those long fingers deft and nimble and steady. You shiver when he brushes your hair off your neck, when he cups your face in his hand and strokes your cheek tenderly.

“Hey, hey, pretty girl,” he says. “What’s this? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically. You hate being a burden. Feelings belong in bottles, not streaming down faces in salty rivulets in the middle of the night when everyone is in their underwear.

But it is too late to spare your dignity. Hyunjin is wiping away your tears and looking at you with abject concern, his expressive dark brows furrowed and his eyes so intensely locked on yours. You heave a sigh.

“A lot of things,” you admit. “I’m sorry, Hyunjin. It’s just stress. My research. You know how it is.”

He does not look satisfied, all that concern still scrawled across his face. He swipes his thumb across your cheek again. Then he is pulling you towards his chest, arms open for an embrace that makes no demands but simply offers. You are usually stiff and awkward when people hug you, but Hyunjin is not just people. You fall into his arms and all but collapse there.

Your next sigh is filled with relief, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled up on his chest. He runs his palm down your hair, soothingly, his other arm secure around you.

You do not know how long you stand there. Long enough he stops catching his pinky on errant curls. Soon he is smoothly running his fingers down your hair, a gentle rhythm that lulls you to drowsiness even while standing on your feet.

“Come on,” Hyunjin says when he sees your drooping eyelids.

You blink to attention, looking at him questioningly. He gives you a quick smile then takes your hand. To your surprise, he leads you to his bedroom. The lights are off but the blinds are open and an ocean of blue moonlight floods the room. It is bright enough you can make your way around his bed without stubbing any toes.

While he folds back the bedcovers, you stop at his desk, brow crinkling at the scraps littering his work space. His canvas depicts something floral, half-painted and oversaturated but clearly a bundle of flowers. The rough sketches scribbled in the margins of his drafts do not depict flowers. They are little portraits, some doodled distractedly with wiggly lines, and others more precisely drawn, painstakingly, almost lovingly.

That’s me, you think, looking at the woman who overwhelms his art. It must be. The unmistakable cascade of curls makes it irrefutable. But the likeness is far too flattering to bear your full resemblance. This girl is extremely pretty, even if she does have your quirky, lopsided smile. Either Hyunjin has met your better looking doppelganger, or… this is simply how he sees you.

“This is your room,” you say instead of that drawing is me. It would be embarrassing if he denied it. It would be even more embarrassing if he confirmed it.

“Ha-ha, yes,” Hyunjin says, none-the-wiser. He is arranging pillows for you. By the time he looks your way, you are facing the bed. He beckons you over. “Come on,” he says. “Like the old days. It’ll make everything better. I promise.”

Your heart is working overtime in its rushing and pounding. You shuffle to the bed, smiling your quirky smile then feeling even more feverish, thinking about him having your smile memorized. Oh dear, why is that so deeply embarrassing? It should be a compliment. Maybe it is because no one else ever looks at you that closely, at least not with such affection.

You are not good with attention. You were bullied for your peculiarities quite badly in childhood. Invisibility became something you sought, because the alternative was always much worse. Attention meant derision. If someone was paying attention to your half-smiles or awkward reactions, it was for the express purpose of mocking them.

When you were ten years old, Hyunjin and his family moved in next door. Those ramshackle houses, long weathered and much loved, leaned towards each other as if magnetized. At the closet joining, the sill of your bedroom window touched his.

An elderly widow previous owned his house. She had a puppy who would scamper up to that window. You were quite devastated to learn a boy would be replacing the dog. Boys and dogs were both slobbery creatures, but at least puppies could fetch.

You were resolved to ignore your new neighbours. You spared a fleeting glance at the moving van then occupied yourself with a book.

A few hours later, your peace was forever disturbed. A toy car flew in your window and landed at your feet. You popped your curly head over the sill to face a dark-haired, dimple-cheeked boy.

“Meet me downstairs,” he said. He did not wait for an answer, dashing away before you could even blink at him.

You picked up the toy car and marched downstairs, determined to return it and explain to this boy, in no uncertain terms, that he was not allowed to throw things in your window, that he could have hit your head or one of your dolls, and unless he was prepared to offer financial compensation he should keep his cars to himself.

The second your feet touched the lawn, he was there. He grabbed your hand and dragged you off, already prattling about where he came from and where he was starting school and his favourite food and – everything. You did not speak for a whole ten minutes.

“My name is Hyunjin,” he finally said, after regaling you with the detailed events of his decade-long life. “What’s yours?”

You told him. You also returned his toy car but you could no longer remember the script for your lecture. He smiled at you, took your hand, and raced off again, towing you behind him.

Hyunjin was very loved, even as a child. It never occurred to him that someone might not like him. He made friends so effortlessly. His confidence was easy, his gravitas electrifying even at that age.

His congeniality was infectious and you found yourself reciprocating his enthusiasm. He was a natural showman and a creative visionary even at that age, coming up with detailed games of pretend with very involved storylines. You ran amok in your yards, dressed in your costumes, and at night you giggled at your windows, close enough that if you stretched out every finger you could clasp hands.

Climbing across that meager gap was an obvious inevitability. When you were teenagers, your parents expressly forbade spending the night unsupervised. The boy-girl dynamic concerned them despite your ardent protestations that it was not like that. It just meant you got good at sneaking around.

You sit on his bed now, remembering the many nights you curled up together just like this. You would talk about utter nonsense and you would talk about your deepest thoughts, at least until the sound of your father’s footsteps sent Hyunjin hurtling back towards the window.

There are no interruptions now. You lay down beside him. You squeak when he tugs you across the bed, pulling you closer to him. You find yourself clinging to him, like you are suspended in that blue ocean of moonlight and he is your only life preserver. He does not seem to mind, wrapping his arm around you, fingers tracing circles down your spine.

“Your research will be fine,” he says. “I wish I could help with those things, but I’m not smart like you are. You’ll figure it out, okay, baby?”

You hope he does not notice how the pet name makes you shiver. It really is quite unfair. How is a person meant to maintain verisimilitude if Hwang Hyunjin is calling them baby so nonchalantly?

The flattery brings discomfort so you deflect. “I’m not that smart,” you say. “I’m just pathetic enough to waste my life in a stack of books.”

You concede the self-deprecation is fishing for reassurance. You burrow yourself deeper at his side.

“Hey,” he says sharply, tugging on a lock of hair so you look up at him. He tsks and shakes his head, wisps of red hair appearing dark in the moonlight and falling into his face as he gazes at you. “Don’t talk about my girl like that,” he says with another playful tug. “You know what happens when people do that.”

You find yourself smiling despite yourself. Because, yes, Hyunjin has often defended you. One time, when you were about fifteen, you were at his house with him and his school friends. You were all in the yard and you excused yourself to wash your hands. You returned just in time to see Hyunjin backhand one of the boys. The boy stumbled then swung back. Soon everyone was trying to pull the pair of them apart while they bit and kicked and swung at each other.

When everyone went home, you and Hyunjin sat on his bed. You were cleaning a nasty cut on his cheek, where the other boy’s ring broke skin.

“Stop that now,” you said, because he was dramatically hissing and cringing while you rubbed ointment in his wound. “You brought this on yourself,” you scolded him. “I hope you learned your lesson. There is absolutely no argument worth escalating to that degree of violence, you understand?”

“There is,” he said, pouting.

“No.” You pinched his arm and he yelped. “There isn’t.”

“This time there was,” he said. Your mouth opened with a ready retort, but he interrupted, “It was you.”

There was a moment of silence, your hand still on his cheek. He was pouting into the distance and avoiding your eyes.

“What was me?” you asked after a beat.

“He called you strange,” Hyunjin said. “And other things. I told him to stop and he didn’t. So I made him stop.”

It honestly never occurred to you that someone might stand up for you. You hardly even defended yourself, long since resigned to the reality that some people were just not nice. You were stunned into silence at your friend’s confession. Only when he looked at you, a tentative sideways glance, did you clear your throat and nod.

“Well,” you said. “I am strange. If you’re going to get into a fight, then next time make it about something worthwhile.”

He smiled. You smiled back.

You are quite certain you fell in love that day. Curling up in his arms felt different after that. You felt flustered and feverish, though you hid it very well. You could not bear the thought of losing his friendship and, besides, it was such a cliché. You at your nicest still looked like the before shot of every romance movie makeover and he got stopped by model scouts while lounging in his sweatpants. Cliché indeed. That story never ended well. You could not abide by it. It was better to repress and deny those feelings.

You are laying on his chest now, listening to his heartbeat, yours skipping erratically in your chest. You think your affection has only grown more over the years, despite your effort to quell the brunt of it. Those efforts seem ridiculous in the calming midnight blue, this comfortable little haven with no reality beyond the perimeter of the bed. Your thigh drifts over his naturally, your bodies angled to each other. He continues stroking your back.

“Please don’t say those things again,” he says, his voice gentler in the calming quiet.

“Sorry,” you grumble.

“So many people admire you,” he continues. “I… I do. I know I’m a dumbass and my opinion isn’t worth much… but I think you’re the best. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” you say in a weak voice, feeling watery again. You sniff. “And you’re not a dumbass. Your opinion means a lot.”

His hand slides up and dives under all that hair, then he cups the nape of your neck. You hide your face in his shoulder when he pulls you even closer. Your palm is over his heart. You feel the racing thrum.

“Were you having nightmares?” he asks, because he knows you too well.

“Yes,” you admit. “The usual stress dreams.”

“Poor baby,” he says, massaging your neck. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Keep touching me like that, you almost say, your frankness compelling you to blurt that vulnerable truth. That his touch feels so good it makes you forget all your insecurities and grievances. You will think clearly when he lets go, but right now his deft massage loosens the tension in your neck and shoulders. You feel yourself go lax against him, limbs like jelly, and warmth spreading from somewhere low and deep within you.

Your hand leaves his chest. Dreamy and absent-mindedly, you reach to touch him like he is touching you.

All you do is tuck some hair behind his ear, then trail your fingers ever so lightly down the side of his neck. It is barely a caress.

Despite the lightness of the touch, you feel his reaction. Quick and unquestionable, his breath catches like he is surprised and his whole body jerks toward you. Your leg is still thrown over his middle. You can feel how fast he gets hard.

Men just do that, you think, even while remembering your ex-boyfriend did not react that way, not that fast, and not to that kind of touch. You try to reason with yourself regardless, coming up with a million biological reasons why your best friend is getting turned on. It has absolutely nothing to do with you wrapping around him in bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties and tickling sensitive places on his neck.

No. It must be something else.

Feeling awkward, you lift your head to deflect. You force a smile and a weak laugh.

“You cannot judge me in the morning,” you say. “I am going to look awful. My hair is going to be standing up in ten different directions. You must promise me right now you will be gentlemanly and not deride me for the untameable monstrosity that latches onto my head overnight. Do you promise?”

He replies in a most ungentlemanly manner.

He kisses you.

His hand still cups your nape. He pulls you close. His lips are so full and his mouth so warm. You must seem limp in comparison, so shocked that you just lay there, mouth and eyes wide open. It is considerably more difficult to convince yourself this is not what it seems, that it has nothing to do with you. Unless he is in immediate need of CPR. Perhaps he is seeking resuscitation because he is feeling lightheaded.

That is ridiculous. It is you who is light-headed, eyes closing as you succumb to the dizzying dark. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth against yours.

For all that his kiss is very thorough, it is not overly demanding. He coaxes rather than takes, all slow seduction as his lips take yours, as he sucks your bottom lip then licks at your open mouth. He swallows down your gasp.

It feels like his hands are everywhere. In your hair one moment then around your waist the next. You think you are floating but then you are being pressed into the pillows. When you open your eyes, he is half on top of you, propping himself up on one arm while his other hand tilts your face up.

A stuttering thought dances on your lips, your eyes wide and breath short. Is this real? This cannot be real. Can it?

That bemused thought, tangled in your breath, dissolves into a surprised whine – a pretty, mewling sound that you did not know was inside you. You have never made that noise, not once, not even alone.

Hyunjin draws it out of you, gracefully manoeuvring himself, his thigh pressed between yours. He nudges your legs apart, somehow spreads your thighs with a gentle push of his hips. Your shirt rides up over your belly and you feel so hot and flushed, realizing you are barely clothed. Somehow, before now, it did not truly occur to you. It was a mere observation as you fumbled through your various anxieties.

Now it is all you can think about it, how vulnerable you are, how little there is between you. You gather fistfuls of his t-shirt when he presses against you, when he keeps your thighs open with his own and brings your bodies together. You make a surprised sound, embarrassed because you are so wet and so hot where he is so hard and touching you. A million nerves come to life under his weight, sending sparks shooting to every extremity. It is a lot. It is so much. Too much?

“Hyunjin,” you rasp, clutching his shirt so tightly that your hands are shaking. “Wait.”

He stops immediately, holding himself above you.

He is out of breath, his chest moving as quickly as yours. His hair is as dishevelled for once, though it makes him look ruggedly sexy. There is already a sheen of perspiration on his hairline. His heart is thundering where you touch his chest.

“Okay?” he asks, breathlessly.

You nod, taking a few deep breaths before your voice is under control. “I just… overwhelmed… I think…”

It all happened so fast. One moment you were thinking about how he would never want you that way, and then suddenly he was kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Hyunjin is something of a rakish libertine, but his partners are always so enthusiastic and friendly, all his pursuits fully consensual even in their brevity. He would never use and discard someone. He would certainly never use you. But your heart is brimming with emotions and this is causing them to bubble and boil over. You cannot, under any circumstances, be physical with him and just move on. You do not work like that.

You have written papers, won awards for your ability to string sentences together. You cannot find two words to put together right now. Nothing to explain why you have to stop, how you do not want to stop, how desperately you love him, why you want him. Why is it so hard to say? Is it hard for everyone or is this another peculiarity of yours? It is always so hard to tell.

You close your eyes and catch your breath. He gives you space, laying down beside you while catching his own breath. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back.

You look at each other at the same time.

“I still want to sleep here,” you say. You hope the words are enough. You are not upset. You still want his company.

He nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice rough in a way you have never heard before. It sends an electric shock through your body, igniting between your legs. You push your shirt down when his gaze wanders there and he swallows, hard. He lays flat on his back and closes his eyes, his lips moving like he is murmuring to himself. You think he might be counting.

You lay back as well, looking at his handsome profile then up at the ceiling. You are not sure that counting will slow the race of your heart or the muddled mess of your mind. You try anyway, backwards from one-hundred.

You are asleep before fifty.

You wake to a predictable mess of hair. You yawn and stretch and scratch your head.

Then you remember why your hair is a mess. Why your bonnet is on the floor in a different room. That you are in Hyunjin’s bed and last night—

You look at his side of the bed. The shape of his body indents the sheets and the space is still warm. He must have just left. Your heart is already pounding like it wants to leap out of your chest. It does not feel like the healthiest way to the start the day.

You are not sure if you are giddy or terrified. How do other people cope with the sheer inundation of sensation that is wrought by desire for another person? How are you expected to carry it inside of you, all day every day, with absolutely no reprieve? How on earth are you expected to walk into the next room and start a conversation with a man who had his tongue in your mouth last night, especially when that man holds a lifetime of friendship in his hands?

At least the video you sent was an honest accident. Verisimilitude will do you no good here. There will be no pretending it did not transpire.

You should have just exploded when you had the chance.

You slide out of bed and cross the room. You poke your head out the door. The bathroom door is closed and you can hear the shower running. You take the opportunity to scurry across the apartment, back to your temporary room where you close the door then slide down it.

You turn yourself into a boneless lump on the floor. Then you huff and stand.

Something will need to be done. Conversations will need to be had. That is simply the rub of it. If he clarifies it was all a physical reaction, you will politely inform him that such a dynamic will be impossible to pursue. If he claims it was because he likes you the way you like him –

It doesn’t matter. That will not happen. You convince yourself of this, running several scripts through your head as you get yourself dressed for the day. You have a conversation with your reflection in the mirror, making some very good points to the abstract Hyunjin of your imagination. He is very compliant. If only real people could stick to your pre-determined scripts the way their imaginary counterparts do.

You stand in front of the mirror, assessing your appearance one last time. Your hair is neat as possible, the more unruly ringlets pinned back. You are wearing a modest sweater and a long skirt. You slip into your shoes and finally leave your room. You hope Hyunjin is still home. You want to talk to him while the script is fresh in your mind and your appearance is composed.

But then you see Hyunjin, making his morning coffee, also dressed for the day. He is wearing all black, shirt and suit jacket and trousers and boots, with a sparkling slash of a silver necklace. His make-up is breath-taking, severe but beautiful. It leaves you slack-jawed. He looks sleek and sexy, but still this side of rebellious with his vibrant red hair and dark make-up.

You cannot help but stare, thoroughly looking him over before you blurt, “Wow. Why do you look so good today?”

A surprised little laugh bursts out of him, almost like a yelp

“I’m taking some photos today.” His gaze is very intense. Or maybe it is the make-up. It makes your heart palpitate regardless, dark eyes fixed so resolutely on you as he smiles and says, “Thank you. You look lovely, pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say quickly. “I look no different than usual.”

“You always look lovely,” he says without any hesitation.

“Be quiet,” you reply. He is already preposterously off-script.

It makes him laugh again. He covers his mouth politely, shaking his head as he pours his coffee. He offers you some but you decline. You want to speak your piece and be done with this awkward situation once and for all.

Hyunjin takes a sip of his coffee, looking at you over the rim of the cup.

This should be easy. You have the words prepared; all you have to do is say them.

“I have to go,” you say instead, because your good sense flitters into oblivion and takes your words with it.

Hyunjin chokes on his coffee, sputtering while you dash to the door. Your purse is sitting on the shoe rack so you snatch it. Your heart is racing like a prey animal, your predator a red-headed pretty boy wiping coffee off his chin as he stumbles after you. He says your name but you ignore him, fumbling around for your keys.

“I’ll be back after dinner,” you say. “Lots of research. Reading. You know how it is. I might lose track of time. We’ll talk later, yes? Yes. Okay. Goodbye.”

He reaches you when you open the door. You can see he wants to talk. You know you should talk. No good ever comes from prolonging the inevitable. But you suddenly cannot face him.

You know you are being cowardly. You know it is unkind because he might want answers too. But you are not good and open like him. You are shut off and shut down and shutting doors.

You stand in the hallway, the closed door between you. Your heart is still pounding. You take a deep breath then turn to leave. You are halfway down the corridor when you realize you need your work bag. Your purse has basic necessities but no study tools.

You stomp your foot, frustrated with yourself and this stupid emotional tempest. If only you were as cold-hearted as people said. But you feel everything with so much burning intensity that you fear it will burn you down to cinders.

You pace in the hallway for a few minutes. It accomplishes nothing but stalling for time, because you cannot go anywhere without your bag. You don’t even have your parking pass or library card. With a resigned sigh, you glumly unlock the door and step back into the apartment.

Fate has opted to spare you a chagrined return. Hyunjin is in his bedroom and does not hear you come in.

You hurry to your room. If you grab your bag and bolt, he might not even notice you returned at all.

Unfortunately, you are a disaster.

You were so frustrated yesterday, overstimulated and erupting at the slightest provocation. Then your bag strap had the audacity to catch on the doorknob, sending papers flying. In mature retaliation, you dumped all the contents of your bag on the floor. It was a mildly satisfying expulsion of frustration at the time. Now you want to shriek because it will take a few good minutes to organize and pack everything again.

You lean your door closed, leaving it cracked just a sliver. You plan another mental script, despite what little good it did last time, explaining to imaginary Hyunjin that you have deadlines and, yes, it is inconvenient, and, oh, maybe we should order take-out for dinner, yes, because everything is normal between us and no one needs to grapple with the onward progression of time and the subsequent shifting relationship dynamics therein—

You hear a creak. You pause, kneeling by the door, holding a stack of papers. You peer through the sliver to see Hyunjin, sighing to himself as he ambles across the room and plops down on the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone.

You find yourself once more arrested by the sight of him. He looks so beautiful but also starkly masculine, sophisticated but dangerous. A gentleman and a bad boy and every other dreamy amalgamation of boy crushes.

He tucks some hair behind his ear and you feel hot, remembering how you touched him just the same, remembering the reaction it garnered.

You fantasize about a braver version of yourself, someone brash and confident enough to approach him. He would look up at you with those smoky eyes, curious but wanting. You would touch him, that same simple touch, and he would rear up and kiss you with abandon once more. You would not even need a conversation because action would speak for itself.

Instead you are peering through cracks in doors, separated thanks to your own cowardice.

He touches his fingers to his chin. Whatever is on his phone is causing a great deal of deliberation. He turns off his screen and lays his phone facedown. His contemplation looks almost painful.

You want to comfort him because he is evidently perturbed by something. But the longer you wait, the more awkward it will be to reveal yourself.

He heaves a great sigh, doubling over, his face in his hands. He shakes his head. He looks truly forlorn, so you finally lay the papers down and try to think of something to say. You watch as he leans back, as he picks up his phone again. He stares down at the screen.

You are still psyching yourself up, preparing yet another useless script.

Then he turns up the volume.

You have rewatched the video you sent him more than once, assessing the details to torture yourself. Maybe, also, secretly, sometimes… imagining him watching it. Then shaking your head and turning it off, because he said himself it made him feel bad and nothing else. So that was impossible.

So why is he watching it now?

Because he is. Unmistakably. You know the sound of your own voice. You know the sounds in that video. You sit there, wide-eyed, staring at him as he stares at you – the you in the video, the you in white satin, the you moaning and touching yourself, fucking yourself while you thought of him.

He puts the phone on his knee, not moving his eyes from the screen as he peels off his jacket and chucks it aside. You can only blink, stupefied. This does not feel real, just like that kiss. Except that kiss was real, this is real, and you are watching Hyunjin as he slouches back and parts his knees and cups his hand between his legs. He touches himself with those long fingers, fingers you imagined while touching yourself in the very video that has him captivated.

He picks up the phone to rewind, all while undoing his pants then reaching inside.

You realize he is about to get his dick out, right here, right in front of you, completely unwittingly, and that snaps you back to reality. Far too quickly, because you make a surprised noise.

He freezes and looks up, first to the front door, then to your bedroom door. You make eye contact very briefly.

Then you slam the door shut.

You do the only logical thing.

You do not go to the library. Hyunjin leaves for his photography session and you pace your bedroom about a dozen times, then you sit down and write. You make a chronological notation of every emotional turning point in your friendship. You chart the data and sketch a few rough diagrams. You arrange all the appropriate paperwork and laminate a few important spreadsheets. Then you clip them all in a binder and pick up your phone and think of how to succinctly summarize three hours worth of deliberation.

The facts fall thusly:

You accidentally sent your best friend a sexually explicit video of yourself.

You granted him permission to watch it.

He watched it.

You caught him in a compromising position with it.

You made a spreadsheet.

Based on your calculations, the probability of Hyunjin returning your feelings seems fairly substantial. But you are not sure how to articulate any verdict based on the facts presented. Your spreadsheets contain data, not a resolution.

Hyunjin is a romantic and soulful creature. You wooed your last boyfriend with a portfolio but he was nothing like Hyunjin. That courtship was an amicable affair and little more. The break-up was cordial and tearless. You shook hands then walked in opposite directions.

A memory comes to mind.

You and Hyunjin. Starting university together. Back when the world first offered itself to your young adult selves.

One day he skipped class and you went to check on him, only to find him curled up in bed in his baggiest sweatshirt, sniffling away. He was blonde then, a burst of starlight in every room he occupied. It was so strange and so wrong seeing him so grey and dejected.

He laid his head in your lap and let you pet his hair. It took some cajoling to get the story out of him. His secondary major was dance studies and he spent months preparing a showcase. Apparently his instructor did not offer him the same thorough critiques he gave other students. You tried to say that was a good thing, but he insisted it was not.

“He doesn’t think I’m worth improving,” he said. “He told me I’ll get by because of my looks. That’s the only thing I have. No one really likes me or thinks I’m worth anything.”

“I know it’s hard because you are a natural drama queen, but don’t be dramatic, Hyunjin,” you said. “Plenty of people like you just fine. They adore you, in fact. And you are very talented. It is not your fault if this one person cannot see past appearances.”

“It’s not just one person,” he said. He sat up to wipe his tears.

You sat awkwardly beside him, hands twitching with the desire to do something helpful but at a complete loss. You never intentionally sought comfort, keeping your feelings to yourself, so you were bad at giving it.

You put a hand on his shaking shoulder. “Hyunjin,” you said, imploringly.

“No,” he said, miserable, his face all scrunched up. “Everyone leaves me when I’m not what they want, and I’m never what they want, because I’m just a worthless face and nothing else.”

It was very strange to hear him express such a sentiment. Hyunjin was always surrounded by doting crowds. But you supposed he had his share of heartbreak as a consequence of knowing so many people. He gave away his heart so easily and it was sometimes returned in pieces. It did not stop him from trying again, which you always commended. You wished you knew how to express that.

“We’re friends, are we not?” you finally asked. “I care for you very dearly.”

“You do?” he asked. Even his voice sounded wet. You grabbed a tissue and shoved it at him.

“Of course I do,” you said. “Though statistically no one can be truly unique in every capacity, and friendships and relationships are often founded by chance and choice, I nonetheless consider your amalgamation of parts to be quite magnificent, and I find your character irreplaceable. You are, indeed, very handsome, but also witty and playful, dramatic to your detriment but nonetheless entertaining, creative and soulful, and you have a defensive streak and natural bite, but a fragile heart beneath that, and I rather admire that. I am afraid I will like you forever, regardless of our proximity or friendship status. Such is the nature of affection. Why are you still crying?”

You were immensely confused when your consolation generated more tears, but you accepted your best friend was an emotional riddle.

Hyunjin has many layers. You have always known this. You told him as much. You have done him a terrible disservice by assuming the worst, that he would be shallow in regards to you. He has always exhibited a fondness for your own depths.

It is more difficult to accept him finding your surface just as attractive. It seems conclusive, though. There is no shortage of sexual content in the world. He could have watched anything. So it is safe to say, touching his dick while watching you fuck yourself might have been a demonstration of a certain level of attraction. Possibly.

You sit on your bed, staring at your phone. You jump when it buzzes with a text alert. You open it, your heart skipping beats when you see it is from Hyunjin.

I’m sorry for this morning, he writes.

I can stay at Felix’s place until you’re comfortable okay.. Please just tell me

i deleted the video now. and the message where you sent it. I should have done that right away

I know you said you didn’t mind but still. I should have just

just done it all differently

The messages come flying in one right after the other. You imagine him a mirror to you, sitting somewhere, slouched over his phone. Hair dishevelled from jamming his fingers through it. A shaky breath on his lips.

You look up, picturing him across from you. You want to reach across the space between you, stretch out every finger, and clasp his hand. You never want to let go.

Your phone buzzes again. You read his words and your heart floods with more than desire. Rich with sentiment, it leaves you more breathless than a kiss.

you mean everything to me.

He is still typing. The ellipses in the corner flashes. You suspect he will send you an endless stream of consciousness if you do not reply soon.

You look at your binder of data, then you look at your phone, then you look at your binder, then you look at your phone. You take a breath. The decent and logical approach would be patience. To study everything you have compiled. To see if he concurs. To communicate the best way to move forward, what that looks like, and how it should happen.

You are not someone who intentionally takes risks. You are not wild and spontaneous. You are not brash or confident. You are not sexy.

Verisimilitude, you remember. Act like it is true, maybe it will be.

You type.

Hello, Hyunjin.

His ellipses disappears.

It is true. I sent that video by accident. But I did grant you permission to watch it.

You open your photo album. There is the video, so inconspicuous, one of a dozen. It is not your most extravagant nor the longest. You were too eager in the moment to prolong anything. You could film it better if you did it again. But it is nonetheless the video that started this whole thing.

Even though you were not trying, the video turned him on. You are hot all over, remembering how he warred with himself before submitting. You remember the amorous look on his face, how desperately he watched you while touching himself. He could not rip his gaze away for even a moment.

You click on the video. You send it with your next message.

This is for you.

You can keep it.

Then you take a chance and write, I want you to keep it.

There is a long moment with no reply. Or maybe it feels longer because you are holding your breath. You exhale with a whoosh and a breathless laugh when he finally replies.

fuck.

are you trying to kill me

You smile, though even that gets you hot, remembering your portrait doodled in the margins of his art. A lightness fills your heart, recalling that, picturing him now. You can imagine his wide, startled eyes, expressive dark brows lifting as he stares at his phone.

No, you write. You are not sure how to respond to a flirtatious overture so you opt for simplicity. You are not one to colour your statements with unnecessary artifice so you state your intentions without colourful obfuscations. To clarify, you write, I fully consent to you masturbating to it. It is only fair. I was thinking of you while I made it.

You wonder if he is still at the photography studio. You can picture him sitting behind the camera, waiting for the next set, his make-up touched up, his black ensemble pristine, and his face humorously contorted.

so you are trying to kill me, he writes.

and i thought you weren’t the unprovoked licentious content type....

You are fairly certain he is playing with you, but texts are even harder to construe than verbal tones. You tilt your head, staring at the message, imagining his voice. The little ellipses flashes in the corner, then you smile when his next message comes through.

I’m just teasing you baby.

He knows you so well. Years of friendship have fortified the affection between you. You were so foolish to ever think otherwise. Of course he can picture you like you can picture him. You feel as if he is holding you in those steady hands, comforting you with that loving touch as the tension leaves your body. You feel safest curled against him and you always have. The only difference now is he calls you baby and your heart does a flip.

I see, you write. Well.

Technically that was not wholly unprovoked. It was very much within the context of our discussion.

This one, however, is entirely unprovoked.

You send another video. This one you filmed a while ago, back in your own bedroom at your townhouse. You are wearing a sweater he bought you. The gift was touching because there was no occasion. He saw it and thought of you so he got it. And he knows your tastes so well, your fit and size and style. He knows you prefer a more modest ensemble in the world.

This video is not modest. You filmed the sweater from every angle then laid down, wearing nothing else. You held a vibrator between your legs and arched your back and filmed yourself, every whimper and sigh and breath. You stopped just before coming, dropping your phone to focus on your orgasm.

You send the video and wait. His ellipses appears and disappears then he finally writes:

fuck.

You flop back on the bed, biting your lip as his rather frantic messages fly in one after the other.

god. pretty girl. you know i'm obsessed with you right?

jesus we did all this backwards. i wanted to be cool when i told you but I’m a stupid mess.

fuck I’m about to have my photo taken

hiding in the bathroom because christ

what are you doing to me

where are you right now??

After all that, you simply answer, In bed. You realize it sounds suggestive only after the fact, but you do not retract it. Nerves gather inside you, blending into adrenaline and anticipation. You know him well but you are not sure what he will say now. This is new territory. It is exhilarating. You do not remember feeling this way with your ex. He was too much like you, so there was nothing to discover between you.

Hyunjin is so different but he fits with you like a puzzle piece, complimentary rather than contradictory. You feel sweltering hot, thinking he must reciprocate those feelings. Maybe he likes your hidden depths. Maybe he likes knowing it is all for him. He is romantic that way. So maybe he likes to see your articulate and intelligent self let go of inhibitions. Maybe you like it too, becoming a body and sharing it with him.

Show me, he writes, echoing that very sentiment.

Be polite, you reply, mostly to buy time while you temper your racing heart. It melts at his next words.

Please.

Show me you want me. want this. want us.

Pretty girl.

My girl.

Please.

Okay, you type. You are quivering but the sensation is not unpleasant. Last night was overwhelming, so much at once, but this you can do. This you want to do. There is a breath of distance, so it is a step rather than a leap. You are no stranger to aiming a camera at yourself.

Before you prepare, you take a breath and write, You show me too.

You get an idea. While he formulates his reply, you jump out of bed and hurry to the front room. He has an array of leather jackets hanging by the door, because of course he does. You rifle through them, looking for the one he wears the most. It smells like him, that rich cologne, a hint of his hair product. If your knees were not already knocking, it would send you swooning. You clutch it to your chest as you make your way back to your room.

You close the door, as if it matters, but this is between you and Hyunjin, the rest of the world insignificant.

You strip down to your underwear then don the jacket. You keep your hair pinned so you do not look like a mess, then you arrange yourself on the bed as neatly as you can. You try not to overthink, even though overthinking is your speciality. You pretend this is a video like any other.

Except the scent of his masculine cologne surrounds you. He is inside your mind, completely and irrevocably.

You open your phone to a new message, a video from him. The lighting is dark in the small studio bathroom, backlit in red. It makes it all the more erotic.

You have never unwittingly clenched. You did not even know you could be so aroused that your body would form a mind of its own. But you are, and it does, pussy very literally throbbing as you watch the video. His artist hand, long fingers curling around the hard curve of his fly. He lowers the zipper and you clench again, making that meek little whimper.

Apparently you like watching videos just as much as making them. You are a mess by the time he gets his dick out.

You turn up the volume to hear his breathing. You know he has to keep his voice down, but it makes his breathy little fuck all the hotter.

Oh Hyunjin, you write. Your vocabulary otherwise fails. There is no other word.

Yes please, he writes.

My pretty girl.

Say my name.

Your next sound is embarrassing and guttural. You are a little glad you were not filming yet.

You clear your throat and position yourself, holding the camera above you. You start recording. With your free hand, you touch the collar of the jacket. You rake your teeth over your bottom lip then lower the camera. The jacket falls open just enough to hint at every curve in contains. You skim down your body. You touch yourself and you are so wet and so ready that you cannot help but make another noise. Unlike him, you are free to be noisy, so you do not restrain yourself.

It feels so different, knowing someone will watch this. You have never been so wet in your life. You cannot even tease yourself, so desperate that you quickly push two fingers inside you. Oh, dear, god, you really sound filthy, ridiculously wet as you fuck yourself with jerky little thrusts.

“Hyunjin,” you murmur, the name that has often perched on your tongue while you do this. It feels so good to say it out loud.

You send him that much, continuing to stroke and fuck yourself while the video sends. You close your eyes and stimulate your clit, rubbing and circling, finding a rhythm. You need it. You need him.

Your phone buzzes and you turn your head. You open the message. You clamp your thighs around your hand, your pussy clenching around your fingers as you read his words.

God I wanted to film it but I just came all over myself

baby you are everything

I wish I was beside you I need to say so many things

god..

pretty girl if I ask so politely will you come for me? will you let me see your pretty face when you come? Please.

You do not type a reply because it is too difficult with one hand, and you will not stop touching yourself, not when you are so close.

It is just a few flicks of your thumb to open the camera again. You frame your face and hit record. You come only seconds later, releasing such a desperate cry as you unravel. It is so much yet not enough. You thoughtlessly shove your own fingers in your mouth, closing your eyes, imaging it is his hand, his wet fingers dragging over your tongue. You want to taste him. You want to choke on him. You just want to feel him so much that the rest of the whole world will fall away. You don’t need to be anyone else. You don’t want anyone else.

You say his name again. Your pussy clenches as if already trained to react to it. You stop filming and send it, breathing hard in the aftermath.

As your adrenaline dwindles, you feel a modicum of embarrassment, but no regrets. Your logical brain does make a grudging return, however. As much as you want him, you know if you rush into things that you will end up balking again. You need a proper conversation. You need spreadsheets. You need to do it his way and your way too.

But for now, you smile, giggling to yourself as you read his replies. Half of his texts are unintelligible gibberish, the other half completely and utterly worshipful.

Nonsense, you finally write.

I’ll come home right now and prove it to you, he says without hesitation.

Except by right now I mean in two hours, because I caught the train out here and it doesn’t leave until then.

Then you’re all mine.

You laugh in spite of yourself, curling up in his jacket. You take in a breath, the scent of him. You type.

I’ve been yours for a long time. I can wait two more hours.

Then… can we talk?

Yes, he answers quickly. Absolutely. I have so much I want to say to you.

Me too, Hyunjin.

He caught the bus to the train station but you offer to pick him up. He enthusiastically agrees, evidently eager to see you again. You find yourself laughing, such a light in your chest that it cannot help but spill out. You are somehow both anxious and excited, but so happy that you do not mind.

When the details are settled, you lower your phone and look at your binder.

You have two hours. That is enough time to laminate a few more spreadsheets.

You tell yourself you will be resilient. You are notoriously stringent and a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon at the best of times. Given you have expelled the brunt of your sexual frustration, you figure there will be no problem. You will meet Hyunjin at the train station, you will come home, you will share a meal and have a conversation, and everything will go smoothly from there.

Except Hyunjin changed clothes. It is not anything extravagant by any means. He is in black jeans and a red shirt, his black dress shirt shrugged overtop. The wind tousles his hair just so, and his make-up has been redone, a little less severe but still so sharp. It is more casual than you expected, and somehow that undoes your perseverance.

You are gawking at him, staring through the car window as he strides over. He gets into the passenger seat like nothing is remiss, tossing his bag into the back. He is wearing heavy boots that thunk when he sits. He closes the door and looks over at you with a smile.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says.

He is so atrocious at keeping to your script. Imaginary Hyunjin is much more accommodating.

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say.

You sit there for a long time. It is getting dark outside, which makes it easy to forget you are in a parking lot outside a train station.

Then he has the audacity to be sweet, at such odds to his daring appearance. He looks so rebellious and you look so meek. He is all vibrant colours and dark slashes, while you are in a blazer and a long brown skirt. Your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin and, despite your best efforts, your hair has come unpinned. The wind has never been your friend.

You are certain you make a funny sight, but he is not laughing at all. His gaze is so affectionate but so warm, burning you up. You gaze back at him, your heart already skipping beats. Then he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind your ear. You remember him doing that at the art gallery. He was looking at you then like he is looking at you now. You realize you have been such a fool.

You lean in at the same time. This kiss does not even pretend at patience. It is a hungry collision, his hand in your hair and yours on his chest. You make a wanting noise when his fingers hook through the curls at your nape and he tugs just a little, just enough to move your head where he wants it so he can deepen the kiss. He makes a noise too, something low and needy. He licks into your mouth, far too hot and far too dirty for a parking lot kiss.

You remember yourself, vaguely. You break the kiss with a gasp. Your fingers curl on his chest and his grip tightens in your hair. Your foreheads touch. The only sound in the car is your mutual rough breathing.

“Right,” you say, your voice raspier than you expected. “Um. We should. Go.”

He nods. But then he proves he is as evil as he looks, because he tilts your head and exposes your throat. He leans in, presses his full lips on that soft vulnerable skin and kisses it so delicately that your whole body is wracked with a shiver. He exhales, warm breath fluttering over your pulse. Then he finally lets go and leans back.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

Home. You have a discussion on that very subject upon arrival.

Prior to departure, you arranged your papers on the kitchen table. You deposit your take-out boxes alongside it, then sit down to eat and discuss.

He furrows his brow as he holds up a spreadsheet.

“Is this laminated?” he asks. “You brought a laminator with you?”

“Of course I brought a laminator with me,” you say unflinchingly. “What kind of question is that?”

He cracks a smile and nods, then waves you on. He listens diligently to your proposed contingency. You prepared index cards so you would not be distracted and led astray. You are glad you did, because when he finishes eating he just stares at you, and he still looks hungry, but not for sustenance.

You clear your throat and try to disregard this, but it is difficult. You unbutton the top button of your shirt to breathe a little easier and he looks at you with more voracious intensity than a single button warrants. You might as well have stripped down naked.

You suppose you already have, halfway. You swallow hard.

“Look,” you say, lowering your index cards to speak frankly. “The bottom line is this. I desire you greatly. I believe there is some reciprocation in this regard. But we are living under a shared roof temporarily and I fear this may cause us to progress faster than I am ultimately comfortable. I would like some longevity in our blossoming dynamic. You are very important to me, Hyunjin. I want us to succeed. I would feel more comfortable if we waited to sleep together, at least until I am back in my townhouse. That means no sharing a bed too. When I am back home, we can properly date, and see how this grows between us. What are your thoughts?”

“When will your place be ready again?” he asks. He is sitting back in his seat, arms crossed, looking thoughtful. You appreciate he is not grabbing at you or immediately trying to convince you otherwise.

You knew he would not pressure you. Regardless, you cannot help the skip in your bloodstream, the natural nerves that surface when he looks at you. You have known him for years. You wonder if these sensations will ever diminish. Present research dictates no.

“The last estimation was six more weeks,” you say.

He smiles. It soothes your heart. You stare at his hand as it crosses the table, as he gently laces your fingers together and squeezes. You blink up at him.

“If you asked me to wait a year, I would,” he says. “If you told me there were things you never wanted, we would make it work. I’ve waited years for you, baby. Six weeks is nothing.”

Goodness gracious. Exactly how is a person meant to be strict and curmudgeonly with this man? He really is the universal exception to every rule. You have just outlined your rubric and you are already considering breaking it.

“Kisses are okay,” you say, hot under your skin. Writing your flirtations was easier than speaking them. Your tone is brusque because you are bad at this, but it just makes him smile. “Maybe other things when the circumstances arise. But we will wait for the rest.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on your palm, holding your gaze all the while. You are quite certain your insides turn to complete mush.

It occurs to you in bed.

You have long since said good night and retired for the evening. You pick up your phone and sigh. You are already skirting the edge of your rules, fully aware you are about to poke a sleeping beast but unable to resist. The realization plagues you, the subsequent questions burning in your chest.

And you are wet. So, so wet, and so, so needy. Because Hyunjin walked you to your bedroom door like a gentleman. Then he kissed you like a scoundrel. He leaned you against the door, his hand planted beside your head and the other holding your face. He kissed you long and slow, like he wanted to draw it out, like he did not want to say good night. Your hands were clasped together because you did not trust yourself to touch him. If you did, you would have dragged him into the bedroom and regretted it later.

But in the moment, it felt so right. You are certain that no kiss, ever, since the dawn of time, had ever felt as good as that one. He took his time with each gentle press, each touch of his tongue, each shared breath. Your chests rose and fell in tandem, your legs turning to jelly where you stood. He fiddled with that one undone top button. You would not have resisted him tearing them all open.

He did not. He kissed you slowly. He kissed you sweetly. With one last peck, he whispered, “Good night, pretty girl. Sleep well.”

You could not find your voice. You made a weak gurgling noise and nodded frantically. He smiled. You rather suspect he knew his effect on you, the rapscallion.

Now you are in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something he said at dinner. You debate texting him. It will open a floodgate. You lower your phone a few times, but ultimately determine you will not sleep until you have settled your mind.

Hyunjin, you write, if you liked me for years, that means you were already inclined towards affection when I accidentally sent that video. Correct?

Correct, he answers with a little emoji face, one with a quirked eyebrow. Why do you ask…?

I was just wondering…

If when I saw you was your first time watching it.

The ellipses is there for a while. Your heart is pounding in your chest. You are certain this man is going to send you into cardiac arrest one of these days. Then you will finally explode at the most inopportune moment.

You sink into the bedsheets, pressing your legs together when his reply comes through.

Honestly… I watched it more than once. I did stop when you first sent it. even though it got me hard in seconds. then you said i could watch it.. and i honestly thought i was still dreaming.

You cannot help but laugh a little. You turn on your side, smiling as he types some more. Then his message comes through and you swallow, flush with heat.

I tried to answer. I tried to flirt with you. I tried to be funny. It all sounded stupid. Then I got back in bed and tried to think of something to say… but god.

god..

Baby what was I supposed to do? if I resisted that they would have made me a saint.

You laugh again. You marvel at his ability to make you smile and get you hot at the same time.

Did you masturbate to it? you ask. It sounds too frank to be seductive but you are not sure how else to pose the query.

You really don’t pull your punches, he says. You think you can somehow hear a smile in his words.

yeah baby, he writes. I did. More than once.

I see, you reply. Okay, thank you, I was just wondering. Good night.

The ellipses flickers again. You release a torrent of giggles into the blankets when he sends you a very tortured looking emoji.

This is going to be a long six weeks.

He is not wrong. It is simultaneously the longest, most arduous six weeks of your life, but also the fastest, the most lively, and the most fulfilling.

You spend the first week stealing kisses. He is good to you, respecting your boundaries. He never asks to share a bed and he does not initiate anything beyond your established desires. He leaves space for you, his arms always open, but he does not force you.

This is sufficiently more seductive than if he started yanking on your clothes in the corridor.

You are watching a movie one night. He puts an arm across the back of the couch but makes no further demand. You settle under that arm, nestling closer at your own pace. You are not watching the film, all your focus on him. He has a foot propped on the coffee table, his arms spread across the couch, and he bops his head along to the music. Of course, he does that even when the music stops, so you think he not paying attention either.

Eventually, you succumb to the butterflies in your belly. They flutter free with an exhale. You touch his cheek and turn his face. He requires little convincing, kissing you without a word.

His foot thumps onto the ground. You find yourself in his lap. You do not know how you lose your head around him. One second, you swear you are on solid ground, the next you are floating. Someone should study this phenomenon. You, yourself, have no idea how to parse its logic.

You straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. He is dressed in all black again, black jeans and a black t-shirt, his eyes still smudged with black eyeshadow. It makes him look so utterly devastating, his eyes so dark and searching.

It makes you bold, coming to life under the intensity of that gaze. It is like some subliminal message passes to something rooted deep inside you, something primal and animal that he plucks with ease.

You dive in for another kiss, burning too hotly under his gaze. He cups your head with both hands. He tosses little hairpins everywhere, grunting with displeasure when he finds them. When you are completely free, he groans, a deep and ravaging moan as he buries his fingers in your hair and pulls you close.

“Hyunjin,” you say, once more at a loss for any other word.

He cannot even manage that much, nothing but a guttural sound leaving his throat. It makes you melt against him. Your body really has a mind of its own these days. You find yourself rocking against him, making his breath catch.

He tugs your hair a little more viciously, thoughtlessly, so entangled that it cannot be helped. You make another ridiculous mewling sound that will embarrass you later, but in the moment it slips free.

He holds you in place, palm cupping your head, keeping you steady while he rolls his hips under you.

It makes you dizzy. Your mouth opens and your eyes close. You slowly rock back. You dig your nails into his shoulders and you are amazed it does not hurt him. But, then again, he is tugging your hair inadvertently and if that hurts you do not notice. The seam of your own pants presses deliciously against you, the hard line in his jeans grinding against the softest part of you, again and again and again.

“Oh,” you say, or rather sigh. Your shoulders shake and surprise thunders into your racing heart. You realize are going to come like this. “Oh. Ohh.”

“Yes,” he says, and holds you steady, and keeps rolling his hips until you come apart in his arms.

You slump against his chest after, resting your head on his shoulder. You can feel him flicking your hair out of his mouth, but he doesn’t complain. You are breathing hard, clinging to him, still surprised you did what you did.

Eventually you find a modicum of strength in your arms. You somehow push yourself upright. You deposit a single apologetic kiss to his shoulder, which is doubtlessly riddled with crescents from nail bites.

He looks at you with a smile, a little breathless himself but evidently pleased.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so reverently you actually believe it. Instinct still compels you to argue, but you cannot find your voice to do so. You just make a little noise and look down at your hand on his chest.

His heart races under your palm.

You think you need to see him come too.

You were previously too nervous to strike the endeavour. You sexted again in bed the night before, but leaving him to his devices is different than taking matters into your own hands. Literally. You are not inexperienced, but he is certainly more experienced. It is another reason you cannot rush into things.

He does not rush you. You arrive at the moment in your own time. And in this moment, it stops mattering. His heart beats under your palm and he looks at you with such an outpouring of affection, it makes your own heart stutter. You are tingling with aftershocks, feeling so alive and vibrant with his eyes on you.

You trail your hand down his chest to his belt. His eyelashes flutter, surprise crossing his own face. His hand covers yours and he lifts a questioning brow. You nod and he lets you go.

You get his belt open with a little struggle. You are a prestigious academic decorated with multiple literary awards, but a belt stupefies you.

He lets you work, twisting a curl around his finger, smiling a lazy smile. You pry the belt open and get his fly down, satisfied when some of his cockiness dissipates as your touch overwhelms him. It is a good overwhelming, given the noise he makes as he rests his face on yours. He murmurs your name and presses kisses all over your face as you work him in your hand.

The jeans are thrown into the laundry hamper immediately after.

The second week is mostly comprised of your usual routines. You have both shirked some responsibilities, too busy flirting like horny prepubescents to get any work done. You eventually return to your books and make remarkable progress on your research project. Hyunjin edits the photos from his latest shoot, uploading them to his profiles and collecting his sponsorships.

You go to your favourite café. You accompany him to his favourite bar because it’s a trivia night and you enjoy it more than you anticipated. You return to the art exhibition then rehash your previous opinions over dinner.

Some moments feel like dates, like when he holds you hand or gets the door or you dare to kiss his cheek in public. Some moments feel like the comfortable friendship you have long enjoyed, and for that you are glad. Gaining Hyunjin as a boyfriend would mean little if you lost him as a friend.

But he is still your Hyunjin.

He just puts his tongue in your mouth now.

The couch becomes a site of utter debauchery. It is the apartment’s no man’s land, given the beds have been relegated to solitary confinement. It really is for the best. For now. You will enjoy yourself more when you are truly ready.

Until then, the couch is subject to repeated episodes of defiling.

You and Hyunjin sit down with the intention of reading your own books, but they are both on the floor and you are on your back and Hyunjin is on top of you. It is not unlike a few weeks ago, when he stole your book and pinned you down. It feels like a lifetime since then. You never would have imagined yourself in this situation for real.

But it is real. You know that, because every nerve in your body is alive and shooting sparks. You make little moans, weaving your fingers in his bright red hair as he kisses you deeply. His jeans are blue today. You are in a long skirt. It makes it a little easier for the material to fall on its own, gathering around your thighs as he presses against you.

You take his hand and guide it up your skirt, resting it on your inner thigh. When he squeezes the soft flesh, you arch your back. A shaky please leaves your lips, breathing the word against his own.

He nods quickly, thumb stroking a circle high on your inner thigh. “What do you want, baby?” he asks.

“Hand,” you say, thinking about that video of him unzipping his fly, how many times you have gotten yourself off to his perfect hand sliding into the frame. His deft and nimble fingers, so precise for his artistic crafts. You blink up at him, hoping you do not look so dishevelled that it is ridiculous.

He clearly likes what he sees. He reaches under your skirt to slip your panties down and off, shoving them in his back pocket so they are not lost. His jeans have a long chain on the hip that he pushes out of his way when he kneels upright on the couch. He guides your thighs apart and angles your hips up, your thighs resting on his.

“Sorry,” you say when he touches you, because you are already so wet from just kissing.

“Sorry?” he asks in a rough voice, very lightly touching you, gathering all that desire on his fingertips and making you shudder. “For what?”

“Just… so… ready…”

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud. He must agree because he laughs incredulously. But you do not have time to feel ashamed because he slides two fingers inside you, your body offering no resistance to him. Then he starts curling up and putting pressure on your inner walls in a way that makes your head spin.

“Poor baby,” he says, his other hand sliding up your waist, holding you steady. “What should we do about that?”

You are coming minutes later, your shirt half-off, your breasts mauled with hickeys and your pussy spasming around his fingers. It feels so good, you do it again, and he ends up coming before you even touch him once.

Next time, you are not on the couch, but standing by the front door, preparing to go out. He is fully dressed with his leather jacket and boots, but you are missing a sweater and one shoe. He is standing behind you, your cheek pressed to the door as he works his hand under your skirt. You cant your hips up and back, grinding against him while he finger-fucks you.

You come so hard your knees buckle. Fortunately, he realizes what it is about to happen and catches you. He does not slow down, though, the bastard, and you keep coming, balanced in his arms.

You are halfway to the ground when you are satisfied. He puts you down gently. And maybe it is being half-dressed at his feet, maybe it his boots or his belt or that leather jacket, or maybe it is the way he looks down at you, but your mouth waters and you swallow hard.

“We don’t need to—” he starts, but you interrupt by opening his belt. You are much better at unbuckling it now, hardly wrestling with the leather at all.

You are acutely aware that you are not very good at giving oral. You are sensitive to sensation and it can be a bit much, but you like the noises he makes and the way he grabs your hair. You are certain he has had better, but you would not know from his reactions. He curses and sighs and groans, alternating between looking at you lovingly and ravenously.

He gets down on one knee after and cups your face and kisses you.

And that is just week two.

By week six, an amendment has been made to the bedroom rule. You will not share a bed overnight, but the morning is a different matter entirely. When the sun is up, the day is starting, so there is nothing wrong with climbing into bed together to talk about the day.

To be fair, sometimes you do just talk.

Other times, like now, your shirt is pushed up to your breasts and his face is buried in your pussy. He is wearing boxers and nothing else, his face bare. You like to look at it, his soft eyes glancing up at you as you push his hair back.

Unlike you who still administers oral with something of a polite and fastidious air, he gets messy with it. You are both drenched when you come, your pussy and thighs a mess while he wipes his face on a discarded shirt.

“So,” he says. “About the townhouse?”

When you finally step foot in your townhouse again, it is an abominable mess. You stand in the foyer with your luggage, slack-jawed and already so overstimulated that you nearly start vibrating.

Hyunjin joins you a second later, carrying the rest of your bags. He knows better than to yank you around when you get like this, but he does guide you to the couch to sit you on a clean cushion. He gets you some water and makes you drink. It helps, marginally.

“Oh dear,” you finally say, an understatement.

You made dinner plans, mostly to dissuade you from desecrating the foyer before you had an opportunity to unpack your bags, but those plans are cancelled in light of all the work that needs doing to make the place habitable again. You are immensely glad there is no longer a river of water leaking out of your shower and into the living room, but the contractors were not overly kind regarding dust and debris, to say nothing of plain dust and dirt.

Your poor bookshelves have been so neglected. They are the first thing to get a good dusting.

It is not an impossible task, when all is said and done, but pizza delivery replaces a dinner out. Whatever plans for seduction you might or might not have had, all evaporate, because you are so exhausted from cleaning that you fall asleep on the couch before it even gets dark outside.

You wake with a start in the middle of the night. You dreamed about giant dust bunnies devouring your poor innocent bookshelves. It takes a minute to ground yourself in reality, your surroundings unfamiliar. You have grown so used to the spare bedroom at Hyunjin’s apartment that you forget your own bedroom for a sleepy moment. When you fully come to consciousness, you remember where you are.

Then you remember you fell asleep the couch, a half-finished plate of pizza in your lap. Hyunjin must have gathered you in his arms and put you to bed. The thought is a little touching but also embarrassing, because that was not the plan for tonight. You suppose your provisos merely outlined not sleeping together until you were in your townhouse, not that it was a requisite for moving back in, but you still miss his company.

You search around for your phone. He left it on your bedside table for you. It is not as late as you thought it was, probably because you fell asleep so early. You text him an apology. You assume he went back to his apartment but you are not sure if he is awake or asleep.

You always liked living alone, but you suddenly lament the empty space. You miss the comfort of another person just one room over. No, not just another person, but Hyunjin.

hey it’s okay, he texts back. you were tired. you should go back to sleep it’s late

I am unfortunately wide awake now.

Yeah me too.

Why are you so awake?

Thinking about you.

If you were not already wide awake, that would have done the job of waking you all the way. You sit up in bed, all your attention on your phone now. You type a reply.

Oh? What about me?

You are not sure if his tone is flirtatious or not. You are getting better at verbal cues but it is still impossible to read someone, even Hyunjin, over text. You cannot even read your own tone, uncertain if it comes across as flirtatious or just curious.

That I’m kinda glad you fell asleep.

Don't laugh at me.. but I think I am nervous

About sleeping with you

You expect any number of answers, but not that one. You struggle with a reply for a moment, not sure if he is seeking reassurance or he just wants to speak his mind. When he starts typing again, you decide to wait.

I know it sounds stupid.

We spent all this time waiting

And god I want to. my girl

I’m so scared of messing this up and letting you down.

Hyunjin, you finally type, before he can descend in a spiral. You told me you would wait a year, or that we would work something out for ourselves if it was necessary. Do you not think I would do the same for you?

The ellipses appears and disappears as he contemplates this. His answer comes a moment later, You’re right.

Of course I am, you reply. I always am.

You hear a laugh. It startles you so bad, you drop your phone on the floor. You snatch it up quickly as possibly and frantically type, Please tell me that is you laughing in my living room.

Oh yeah sorry I just slept on your couch.

This man will be the death of you one way or another, that much is for certain.

You frightened me half to death. I thought you left.

Ah sorry baby..

Do you… want me to come upstairs?

That restless heart of yours skips beats for another reason, a different type of fear, one not unlike his own. You are not sure how the night will progress, but you know one thing for certain, one thing that is true and will always be true: you want Hyunjin. You want him with you, and beside you, now and always.

Yes please, you write, then wait.

His footsteps creak on the stairs. The human body really is a peculiar creation, because your fear seems to bleed right into newfound arousal.

You look up as he opens the door, using his phone flashlight as a guiding light. It is facing upward, illuminating him. Your phone screen is on, offering some light over your own features.

You are still wearing the sweater and sweatpants you cleaned in, absolutely not a sexy outfit for a first time sleeping together. You considered ordering special lingerie for the occasion but you are still quite bad about feeling embarrassed about those things. You made yourself nervous and balked every time you pictured walking in the room with them on. You think you will do that one day. You will probably have to make yourself comfortable with it first. Maybe you will send him a video.

You look up at him, your heart pounding just thinking about it. He gazes back at you. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, also not an especially fancy outfit to celebrate any firsts.

His face is bare. Your hair is loose. There is something about the shadows and a new room that makes you feel like strangers for a moment. You tell him as much, mostly to fill the silence, because he is staring at you and his gaze is far too amorous to be directed at a silly woman who fell asleep in her cleaning clothes at suppertime.

He tips his head as he looks you. You shiver, as if it is the first time he has ever looked at you, as if he has not made you come a dozen times on his face and hands, as if he has not known you for most of your life.

He turns off his light. The room is plunged into darkness. That ridiculous heart of yours starts leaping around like it has an electric current.

“Hyunjin,” you say, reaching blindly. You gasp when he captures your hand, leading it onto his shoulder. Then you feel his whole body, his hair brushing your face, his hands on you. Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and see you him a little better, the muscle definition in his arms, the necklace dangling when he leans down towards you.

“I’d fall in love with you again,” he says. “If we were. Strangers. If I was seeing you now for the first time.” He touches your cheek, brushes his knuckles up your temple then slips his fingers into your unruly hair. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you a hundred different ways. I think I will again.”

“You know I am not good at speaking with poetic embellishment,” you say, swallowing around the lump in your throat, one caused by both sentiment and nerves. “So I will have to speak plainly with you. I love you too, Hyunjin. I always have. If we were meeting for the first time right now, though, I would probably be screaming and throwing things at you.”

He laughs and the sound make you feel like you are glowing. You need no other light. You reach up and touch his face and you see him perfectly, can picture his smile even before you trace your thumb across his bottom lip. You cannot draw like him, but if you could, you would scribble his likeness in the margin of your work as well.

“Good thing we’re not strangers, then,” he says. “Because I’d really rather make love to you.” He swoops down and kisses your forehead. “My friend.” He kisses a sensitive spot below your ear, the place he teases when he wants to rile you up quickly. “Baby.” Then he is tipping your head at the perfect angle to lean down, his lips brushing yours when he says, “My pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say breathlessly, because of course you do.

And of course he kisses you.

He kisses you deeply, holding the back of your head as he gently lays you down. You push the covers away, opening yourself to him completely. You wrap around each other, sinking into the sheets, arching your back to feel more of him.

You gasp when he tugs your hair. He has already found so many ways to make you plaint and needy, to forget your skills of articulation and lose every word but his name.

“That’s it,” he says, hooking your legs around his waist. “Show me what you want, baby.”

You reach between your bodies, cupping where he is already hard in his jeans. Everything about him is so hard against you, you in your soft sweats with your pool of curly hair, losing yourself as his strong hands work their way down your body. He lifts your shirt off and tosses it to the side, then gathers your hands because you always have an instinctive moment of covering yourself. You are modest by nature, but you trust him with everything. It is exhilarating, when he takes your wrists and pins them by your head.

For a moment, you do imagine every version of yourselves. You and him, old friends turning into lovers. You and him, established lovers, finally coming together. Two strangers, finding each other for the first time. There is always something new to discover. You love him again and again.

“Say my name,” he says, working his way down your body. He is still fully clothed when he has you fully naked, writhing under him as he pushes his tongue in you. It is a slow seduction with his mouth on your pussy as he kisses you there as thoroughly as he kissed your mouth. “Say it.”

“Hyunjin,” you say, repeating it as you come, your legs wrapped around his head.

He spares you only seconds before his fingers are inside you. You cling to his arm, making noises that still surprise you, begging him with your eyes and hands and little cries. When he cups your face after, you open your mouth wide, wanting. He fucks your mouth like he fucked your pussy, two fingers gliding across your tongue until you are bucking and pleading, sucking on his fingers and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Fuck,” he says, then whips off his shirt.

He kneels and you help tug his jeans and boxers down to his knees. You curl towards him, situated so he can finger you while you wrap your lips around his cock. You are usually very neat about it, but you cannot think clearly with his fingers inside you. You mostly wet him, barely blowing him, but he still kisses you when you pull back.

When he gets the last of his clothes off, he surprises you by sitting back against the headboard and pulling you into his lap. He surprises you even more by folding your arms behind your back and pinning your wrists at the base of your spine. He holds them there in one hand, the other between you as he helps you settle on top of him.

He does know you well. The second his cock so much as brushes you, there is an instinct to cover up. You hands twitch but he holds you, speaking to you gently, soothingly. He eases you through it, breathing just as hard as you sink down until he is fully inside you. Then you are clenching sporadically around him, almost a mini-orgasm just from the initial thrust. He is still holding your arms behind you, guiding you through it with him completely in control. It seems to be the way he likes it, but you don’t mind at all. You can be a stern stickler everywhere else; here you can be his.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he says, free hand on your hip, holding you as he rolls his hips under you. “That good, baby?”

You answer with a mewl, dropping your face to his shoulder and staying there. He laughs, eventually lifting your head. Then he puts you on your back and lifts your leg onto his shoulder, and he fucks you in a way you once could only imagine.

He pushes your knees back, presses his body so close to yours. A sheen of perspiration covers his skin and you are certain you are not faring better. It feels good, it feels free. You wrap your arms around him and hold tight.

“My girl,” he says, with a strong thrust, then another. Sounding as deliriously inarticulate as you when he says, “Mine.” And thrusts again. “Mine.” And again. “Always.” Again.

You seek his hand blindly. He offers it, lacing your fingers like the romantic he instinctively is, but you lead it right to your throat where you want him to hold you. When he does, your body goes completely soft for him, like every worry flees at once. You are always so in your head, to be a body feels good, to share it with him even better. You hum with pleasure, mouth open like a good girl for your dreamy bad boy as he leans down and kisses you, his tongue fucking into your mouth with the same vigour he takes your pussy.

When he rubs his thumb over your clit, you last only seconds, your whole body shaking as you lose complete control. He holds you through it, rocking into you, kissing your face and neck. He pulls out and strokes himself to completion, coming on your thighs and pussy.

You wrap around each other after, rolling into the middle of the bed. You somehow migrated horizontally during your lovemaking. You will need to move eventually, but sleep is finally hitting you. You feel Hyunjin clean you up with his t-shirt, but you only stir when he kisses you. You wrap around him and return a few sleepy kisses down his neck. He slides a hand in your hair, cups the back of your neck, and stays like that.

“What next,” you ask sleepily, not fully conscious of your words.

“Mmm.” He sounds just as sleepy. “Still need our dinner date,” he murmurs. “Can decide in the morning.”

“Okay,” you say. And even though you are half asleep and barely conscious, you add, “I can make a spreadsheet.”

He smiles. You think maybe you should learn to draw just so you can draw that smile after all. Maybe there is an artist and a romantic inside you, or maybe it is just the parts of him so entwined with you, forever embedded in your heart. You are actually excited to learn.

You give him one more sleepy kiss. It is early morning now.

You fall asleep together at the start of a new day.

#hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz x reader #hyunjin smut #skz smut

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transform4u · 1 month

Note

I’ve always thought dumb straight stinky Asian gym bro fuckboys are the hottest dudes and wish I could fit in, anything you could do to help? 👀

You sit slouched at your computer, idly scrolling through Tumblr, the glow of the screen casting a pallid light on your bored expression. The repetitive motion of your mouse wheel is almost hypnotic, your mind drifting as your eyes glaze over the endless stream of posts. The scent that begins to intrude upon your awareness is faint at first—a subtle, unpleasant note that soon grows more pronounced.

The odor wafts towards you, a pungent blend of musty socks, damp gym towels, and the heavy, almost tangy aroma of sweat-soaked clothes. It lingers in the air, persistent and invasive, with an unsettling familiarity that makes your nose twitch in disgust.

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, your own body heat mingling with the stench as you start to notice a growing discomfort. The smell from your underarms begins to intensify, an unmistakable sign of exertion gone stale. It’s as if a thousand workouts have left their mark, coalescing into a single, rank essence. The odor is sharp and acrid, a mix of sour perspiration and the earthy musk of skin that has been too long encased in sweat-soaked fabric.

Suddenly, a sharp pang courses through your body, a tingling sensation that starts from your core and spreads outward. It’s as if each muscle is awakening, pulsing with renewed energy and life. Sweat starts to bead on your skin, trickling down in a steady stream, each droplet glistening momentarily before merging with its predecessors.

You watch as your muscles begin to swell, the contours of your physique becoming more defined with each passing second. Your once-pale skin takes on a warm, golden hue, as if absorbing the very essence of the sun’s rays. Your biceps bulge, their definition stark and pronounced, while your triceps form pronounced ridges that ripple with every twitch. Your chest rises and expands, each pectoral muscle growing in prominence, casting shadows with their newfound depth.

Your abs, once barely discernible, now form a chiseled six-pack, each muscle etched with a precision that makes them look like a masterpiece of human anatomy. Your legs swell with new strength; quads become tree trunks, hamstrings curve with a pronounced bulge, and your calves jut out with an exaggerated, almost otherworldly definition.

Your body seems to pulse and twitch with a life of its own, growing more muscular and defined in an almost grotesque exaggeration. Your face, while still familiar, now carries an intense look of concentration, as if you are perpetually poised for the next physical challenge. Your jawline sharpens, your cheekbones become more pronounced, and your eyes, though hidden behind stylish shades, carry a vacant yet confident glare.

The sensation of sweat dripping and muscles expanding is both exhilarating and oddly uncomfortable. The smell of gym sweat and your own body odor becomes an intrinsic part of this transformation, blending with the overpowering scent of heavy cologne that seems to cling to you like a second skin. The room now feels charged with the energy of your evolving physique, a testament to an exaggerated ideal of strength and definition. You let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, feeling the sound reverberate throughout your room. The laughter echoes off the walls, making the room seem smaller and more confined. Posters of hot babes take the place of your lame as fuck posters for shit like Spider-Man. Your room, once tidy and organized, now lies in disarray. Old beer cans and clothes with used cum stains workout shirts litter the floor, a testament to your own laziness and lack of self-control.

You let out a thunderous fart, PFFFFTTTP the sound reverberating with a grossly satisfying resonance as your nostrils flare to soak up the smell. The air is heavy with the pungent smell, mixing with the already stale odor of old beer and lingering sweat. As the fart dissipates, it seems to contribute to the general sense of disorder, making the room feel even more grimy and neglected. You’re aware of the gross transformation, but it feels oddly fitting—like a physical manifestation of your current state of mind.

With a sudden shift, you feel a peculiar dumbness settling over you, a sense of reduced awareness and simple pleasures taking over. Your thoughts become more basic and straightforward, focused on the physical and superficial. You find yourself staring at the posters with a renewed, almost animalistic interest. You stare at one of the posters seeing the image of a dumb blonde chick, some movie star you can't quite remember. Her face is a perfect oval, her hair a golden blonde that cascades down her back like a river of sun-kissed silk. Her boobs practically jump out at you. Her eyes are a bright blue, sparkling with a dumb, vacant intelligence that only serves to make her more attractive. You feel your dick harden as you gaze upon her, your mind clouded by the fogginess of a drunken stupor.

Memories flash through your mind of your days as a “dumbass Asian bro”—the frat parties, the catcalling, and the mindless games played with your bros. You remember the thrill of hollering at women, the camaraderie of playing ridiculous games, and the sense of belonging it brought. Those moments, once sources of pride and amusement, now seem oddly fitting within the context of your present state. They represent a simpler, more carefree time, one that aligns with the unthinking pleasure you’re now experiencing.

You pull out your phone and glance at the screen, a text from your Asian bro lighting up your face. You quickly scroll through the messages, a smile spreading across your face as you read about all the hot chicks who are totally wasted at the bar down the street. Your dick begins to harden, your thoughts racing with visions of all the pussy you'll get tonight.

You hope there will be a dumb blonde chick for you to fuck. You want her to be wasted and stumbling, her body hot and sweaty from dancing. You want her to be weak and submissive, her body trembling beneath yours as you take her. You imagine her face, her bright blue eyes and her golden blonde hair. Your dick is hard now, throbbing with desire.

You let out a dumb laugh, feeling the sound rumble through your chest. You glance in the mirror, your big biceps flexing as you let out the another fart. Your muscles are rippling, your chest broad and powerful. You look like a beast, a wild animal ready to take on all the pussy you'll find tonight.

You imagine the dumb blonde chick, her body pressed against yours as you fuck her. You imagine her face, her eyes closed and her lips parted in pleasure. You imagine the way her body will move, her hips swaying and her hands grasping at your skin. Your dick is hard now, throbbing with desire. You can't wait to get down to the bar and start taking on all the hot chicks.

#gay to straight #male tf #transformation #jock tf #nerd to jock tf #dumber #race change #ask

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doumadono · 3 months

Text

Synopsis: in a surprising twist orchestrated by Toga Himiko, two antisocial League of Villains members, Dabi and you, find an unexpected connection during an awkward blind date

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

You’ve never been one for socializing. The whole concept of small talk, mingling, and putting yourself out there has always felt foreign to you. After all, socializing was never your strong suit, and you were quite content with your single status. You’ve always preferred the comfort of a good book or the solitude of your thoughts.

But that’s exactly why Toga took it upon herself to organize a blind date for you. She’s always been a bit of a meddler, and apparently, your perpetual singleness was too tempting a problem for her to ignore. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” she had chirped with her usual manic enthusiasm. "Trust me, you'll love him!" Toga had chirped with a mischievous grin. "He's just like you - hates socializing, too!"

And you had no choice but to go along with it, if only to get her to stop pestering you.

Toga had transformed one of the dingy rooms into something that vaguely resembled a romantic setting. There were candles (probably stolen), a table (slightly wobbly), and two chairs (one missing a leg but propped up with a stack of books). It was sweet in its own chaotic way, very much in line with Toga’s personality.

You sat down, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth, wondering who in the world Toga could have set you up with. She had been annoyingly secretive about the whole thing, dropping hints that only served to confuse you more. For a moment, you wondered if Himiko might have set you up with no one else but Shigaraki himself. The boss was the most antisocial person you’d ever met, which could mean this date would be an absolute nightmare. But there was no backing out now.

The door creaked open, and Dabi walked in.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

Dabi? Of all people?

The blue-flamed villain looked as disinterested as ever, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded with boredom. “Great,” he muttered, not even trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “Toga’s matchmaking now.”

You offered a small, awkward smile. “Looks like it.”

Dabi slouched into the chair across from you, and for a moment, the two of you just stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Finally, he spoke. “So, how did Toga rope you into this?” he asked, his tone as dry as sandpaper.

You shrugged. “She didn’t really give me a choice. And you?”

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pretty much the same. I guess she thinks we’re both too antisocial for our own good.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “She might be right about that.”

Dabi chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. “Sounds like her. She loves meddling in other people’s business.”

You nodded, grateful for the small talk. “Yeah, she’s something else.”

Another awkward silence fell over you. You glanced around the room, trying to think of something to say. Your eyes landed on a small stack of books in the corner, and an idea popped into your head. “You like reading?” you asked, nodding towards the books.

Dabi followed your gaze and scoffed. “Not really. I only read articles about how great heroes are supposed to be.”

You blinked in surprise. “Why’s that?”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “So I can read between the lines and find their weak spots. It’s more fun tearing them down when you know their flaws.”

"I saw you reading something about Endeavor earlier," you ventured, trying to sound nonchalant. You were still new, still trying to weave yourself into the fabric of the League without causing too much disruption.

Dabi’s smirk faltered slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, did ya?”

“Yeah,” you continued, curious. “You were pretty engrossed in it. Do you like Endeavor?”

His eyelid gave a slight twitch, a nearly imperceptible movement, but it was the blue flames dancing over his knuckles that caught your attention. They flickered menacingly as he slowly clenched his hands into fists. "He’s just my main interest," Dabi replied, his voice dripping with a wry amusement that did not reach his eyes. There was something ominously calm about the way he spoke, a laid-back tone that contrasted sharply with the dangerous glint in his gaze.

Looking to shift the heavy atmosphere that his words had conjured, you ventured to a lighter topic, one that might catch him off-guard in a humorous way. “So, you’ve read everything about him, huh? What about fanfiction? Ever dive into that rabbit hole?”

Dabi made a scoffing sound, a dismissive and sharp exhalation that cut through the levity like a knife. His gaze hardened, the blue flames flickering dangerously as if they were an extension of his simmering rage. “I don’t give a fuck about what people write about that scumbag,” he said, his voice cold and scornful. “How they idolize him in the creations of their sick minds,” he continued, his lips twisting into a derisive sneer. “But I’m sure they’re as sick as Todoroki Enji himself. One day, I’m going to destroy that fucker,” Dabi declared, his words not just a promise but a vow, laden with all the intensity of his deep-seated hatred.

After a moment, his fire faded out, and Dabi leaned back in his chair, looking you over. “So, I assume you read when you’re not being forced into awkward dates?”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to go with honesty. “I read a lot. Mostly horror novels. And I like to cook. It’s calming.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cool, I guess.”

The conversation continued like that, awkward and stilted at first, but slowly easing into something more comfortable. You talked about books and movies, some random stuff like your favorite food types, your mutual disdain for social gatherings, and the absurdity of Toga’s matchmaking efforts.

At one point, Himiko burst into the room with a tray of hastily made snacks, beaming with pride. “How’s it going, lovebirds?”

Dabi shot her a withering look, slowly cocking his eyebrow. “We’re not lovebirds, Toga.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “But it’s going surprisingly well. As you can see, I’m still alive.”

Toga clapped her hands together. “I knew it! You two are perfect for each other. I’m a genius!”

She scampered off, leaving you and Dabi to your conversation.

Despite the unusual setting and the odd circumstances, you found yourself actually enjoying the evening.

Dabi’s dry wit and cynical outlook somehow meshed well with your own reserved nature. Dabi might not be the most conventional date, but there was something about him that intrigued you. And for someone who had always avoided socializing, that was saying something.

“So, how did you end up joining the League?” you asked, munching a jelly bean.

Dabi leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Wanted to burn the world down, found like-minded people. What about you?”

You shrugged, not wanting to delve too deeply into your past just yet. “Wanted to make a difference in my own way. The heroes… they never really helped people like me.”

Dabi’s eyes glinted with a hint of understanding. “Yeah, they’re all hypocrites.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “What about you, rookie? What do you think of the League so far?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “It’s different. I mean, it’s not what I expected, but in a good way. Everyone’s really passionate about what they believe in.”

Dabi’s gaze softened slightly as he scoffed. “Yeah, we’re a pretty dysfunctional family. But it works somehow.”

“Have you ever thought about what you’ll do after all this?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Dabi shrugged. “No. And I don’t really care. Guess I’m more of a ‘live in the moment’ kind of guy. What about you?”

You took a moment to think. “I’m not sure. I just want to find a place where I belong. Somewhere I can be myself without having to pretend.”

Dabi’s smirk returned. “Sounds like the League’s not a bad fit for you, then.”

"What do you think of Shigaraki as a leader?"

Dabi smirked, slowly stretching his fingers. "He's got vision, I'll give him that. We might be a bunch of misfits, but he’s the glue that holds us together. For now."

"Do you think he’ll succeed?" you tilted your head to the side.

As long as he keeps his head on straight and doesn’t get too ambitious too fast, maybe. But I have my own plans, too, and I rather focus on them.”

Curious to learn more about him, you asked, “What were you like before joining the League?”

Dabi’s expression darkened momentarily. “Let’s just say, I’ve had my fair share of shitty experiences. But that’s the past, and the past never fucking dies.”

You sensed his reluctance to dive deeper, so you shared a bit about yourself instead. “I was a loner. Never really fit in anywhere.”

He taunted, “Yeah, I get that. We’re all here because we don’t fit in out there.” Eventually, Dabi leaned forward after lazily chewing a cracker, his expression serious for once. “This evening wasn’t as terrible as I thought it’d be. And you weren't that bad either. Maybe we could do it again sometime. Without Toga’s interference, of course. I know a few nice places, far enough from these crazy maniacs.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest as you giggled, “I’d like that, Dabi.”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, me too, actually.”

Perhaps there was something to be said for this whole notion of socializing after all. Maybe it could bring a little light into the shadows.

#dabi #bnha dabi #dabi fluff #dabi x reader fluff #dabi x y/n #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #dabi my hero academia #mha fluff #bnha fluff #my hero academia dabi #mha dabi #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #todoroki touya #weekly challenge #toga himiko #anime fluff #league of villains

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lovezbrownies · 12 days

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My actions. (Yandere!F!Med Student x GN!Reader.)

General Masterlist

Synopsis: You meet the infamous Lorelai Marlowe, your med school's sweetheart. And you hate her. Referring to this ask!

Warnings: Mean darling, reader don't gaf! stalking, slow burn obsession, gets kinda creepy at the end, reader yelling at Lorelai.

Lorelai Marlowe x GN!Reader

Lorelai Marlowe had never known true friendship. Born into a family of wealth and prestige, her life was shaped by expectations and status. The Marlowes were not just wealthy, they were a dynasty of accomplished individuals, known for their brilliance and influence. And where there was money, there were people eager to get close. Lorelai learned early that, for most, being her friend meant securing a piece of the Marlowe fortune. Relationships were transactional: "You give, I take." It left her craving something real, an honest friendship, untainted by her last name.

Her idol is her father, Mason Marlowe, a man who embodied success in its purest form. Mason Marlowe was a genius: the youngest person in the country to hold seven degrees, one bachelor’s, two medical degrees, two master’s, and two doctorates. "A bachelor's is barely worth the paper it’s printed on," Isa’s father would say with a dismissive wave of his hand. But his disdain wasn’t reserved for education alone; her father held a similar view on relationships. “You’ll never find true friendship while bearing the Marlowe name, Lorelai,” her father would warn. “People want our money, not you.” When Lorelai was younger, she fought against that idea. She believed in friendship, in the idea that people could care for her beyond the wealth she represented.

But now, after years of watching greed twist every connection, she wasn’t so sure.

Though she yearned to be as indifferent to social interaction as her father, that trait was beyond her reach, something she would never achieve. Lorelai couldn’t help herself. Even with the fakest of friends, she found herself chatting away, always looking for a spark of something real. Despite her privilege and the walls she built, Lorelai was a loving person at heart. She just needed someone to give her a small piece of love in return.

And soon, she would find that glimmer of hope in her medicine class. Lorelai excelled in every course she took, a testament to the Marlowe family’s near-genetic genius. With her eidetic memory, she never had to study as long or as hard as her peers. While others broke their backs studying, Lorelai effortlessly retained every detail. It was a fact that had always set her apart, and isolated her.

She’d never paid much attention to you before. You were just another face in the crowd, one of those students who always seemed perpetually exhausted, always overburdened with books and the stress of academia. And while Lorelai would sit through class texting or working on assignments for other courses, today would be different. Her professor had just partnered her with you, some random student she barely knew, for a project on the effects of diabetic medicine. Naturally, other groups were assigned far more exciting topics, but this? It was just her rotten luck.

Standing tall and poised, her family’s perfect genes in full display, Lorelai surveyed the classroom. She was everything her mother always said she was, tall, gorgeous, smart. Perfect. She scanned the room for you, but she had no idea what you looked like. All she could do was watch for a student who looked as lost as she felt. And then she spotted you.

You approached her slowly, the school's oversized jacket wrapped around you like a shield. Your slouched posture and the disarray of your appearance made you look even more exhausted than usual. Your backpack bulged with books, threatening to spill out at any moment, while your hair looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days. Lorelai hesitated for a moment, worried that your messy appearance might signal laziness. But then she reassured herself: the more disheveled you looked, the harder you probably worked. You would be diligent, even if not polished.

With her signature bright smile, Lorelai greeted you as you finally stopped in front of her. She decided to speak first, her tone bubbly, eager to break the ice. “Hello! I’m Lorelai Marlowe! And you must be Y/N! Or are you? Hehe, I’m just kiddin, ”

You cut her off sharply, your voice curt and almost aggressive. “Are you going to take this project seriously, or should I do it alone?”

Lorelai froze, shocked by your bluntness. No one had ever spoken to her like that before. It was… rude. But it was also oddly intriguing, lighting a spark in her that had no business being lit. She chuckled nervously, trying to recover. “I, No! Of course, I’ll take it seriously. I’m so sorry if I made it seem like I wouldn’t! I was just trying to exchange some friendly banter.”

You narrowed your eyes, clearly skeptical. After a moment, you sighed, realizing it wasn’t worth the energy to argue. “Yeah, okay. That’s good. Let’s start by doing our research on diabetes in the library. Better start from there.”

Lorelai smiled nervously again, her eyes darting to the side as she scratched her arm, a telltale sign of her discomfort. “Actually, I-I had something planned with some of my friends after this class… But I promise I’ll still help!”

Before you could respond, she reached for a pen. “Here’s my number, Do you have a pen by, Oh! Heh, thanks!” You handed her the pen that had been stuck behind your ear for half the class, but when she tried to grab your hand to write on, you yanked it away.

“No. Here’s a sticky note. I don’t want to get ink poisoning from some girl’s phone number.”

Some girl? Did you not know who she was? Lorelai stared at you, stunned by your indifference. She wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. You shook the sticky note in front of her face, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“See you later,” she said, still flustered, “Next time you work on the project, p-please invite me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you muttered as you turned to walk away. “As if you’d come…”

As the days passed, Lorelai found it hard to forget your strange, cold demeanor. Even some of her ‘friends’ began noticing her mind wandering during conversations. It was odd, she thought, how that brief encounter stuck with her. Normally, people came and went in her life without much impact. But you were different. You didn’t seem impressed by her, and that nagged at her, stirring a curiosity she hadn’t expected.

At first, she tried to brush it off. You were just another project partner, someone she’d never thought twice about before. But when you hadn’t texted or reached out in any way, concern started to creep in. What if she’d offended you somehow? Lorelai wasn’t used to people staying angry at her. She was used to charming her way out of any misunderstanding, but something about this situation felt different.

By Tuesday, Lorelai decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She wasn’t one to obsess over things, but this situation, you, felt unresolved. It itched at the back of her mind. She’d skipped the evening medicine class plenty of times, but tonight, she couldn’t bring herself to miss it. If only to clear the air. Maybe, once you two talked, this lingering unease would go away.

She arrived late, of course, distracted by the usual mindless chatter of her friends, but she did show up. That had to count for something.

Sliding into the seat next to you, Lorelai tried to catch your eye, but you seemed utterly absorbed in the lecture. She smiled, a soft, almost shy curve of her lips, something out of character for her. But when you didn’t even acknowledge her presence, that smile faltered.

Tentatively, she reached out, her hand lightly patting your thigh, expecting the usual warmth of recognition. But when you looked at her startled, confused, there was no warmth. Instead, there was an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Disdain? Annoyance?

“Hi! Sorry for scaring you,” she whispered quickly, eager to close the distance that seemed to have opened up between you. “I noticed you didn’t text me after Friday, so I thought I’d check in, make sure you didn’t start working alone. I’m here to help, of course.”

But instead of relief or understanding, your eyes narrowed. “I did text you,” you muttered, voice cold and firm. “Maybe you should check your messages.”

The words cut through her like ice. Had you? Impossible. She would have noticed. She always kept her phone on her, never missing a single message from anyone. She’d know if you had reached out.

Fumbling through her phone, her confidence wavered as she scrolled through countless unread texts. And there, hidden in plain sight, were your messages.

Her stomach dropped.

Saturday, xx, xxxx: Hey, it’s your project partner. I’m going to the library to research insulin for our project. If you’re coming, I can grab you coffee.

Sunday, xx, xxxx: Going to the library again to research more meds. Join if you can.

Monday, xx, xxxx: I finished the project. I included you where I could. Submitting it tonight.

For the first time in a long while, Lorelai felt truly ashamed. You’d been reaching out, offering olive branches, and she had ignored every one of them. You had every reason to be upset. As the weight of her mistake sank in, she looked up at you, her voice small and shaken. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t see them. I swear, I just, ”

Your sharp look cut her off, the anger in your eyes almost startling. “It doesn’t matter. I gave you the credit. Now, leave me alone.”

The coldness in your voice sent a shiver down her spine, and she fell silent. People didn’t speak to her like that. Ever. The weight of your dismissal clung to her long after the lecture ended, and as she walked home that night, her mind kept circling back to the interaction. You weren’t just mad, you had no interest in forgiving her.

Over the next few days, she found herself replaying the scene in her head. At first, it was a matter of guilt. She’d never meant to dismiss you like that, and she told herself she just wanted to apologize properly. But as the days stretched on, something shifted. You really didn’t care, did you? There was no attempt on your end to smooth things over, no effort to reconcile. You weren’t trying to get back into her good graces.

That... intrigued her.

Lorelai had never met someone who could brush her off so completely. She found herself wondering more about you, where you hung out, what your life was like outside of school. You weren’t like the others, the people who fawned over her or sought her attention. You were indifferent, and that indifference bothered her more than it should have.

Tuesday class rolled around again, and she showed up, not for the lecture, but to see if you were there. Her friends noticed the change, making offhand comments about her ‘mysterious project partner.’ Lorelai just smiled, deflecting their questions. She hadn’t told them how strange you made her feel. They wouldn’t understand. No one else ever made her question herself like you did.

This time, when she saw you seated in the hall, she hesitated. You hadn’t forgiven her, she knew that, but there was something about your anger that pulled her in. She took a seat a few rows behind, watching you for a while, studying how you scribbled notes with such focus. You hadn’t looked up once.

How could you act like she didn’t exist?

She told herself it was just curiosity. You were a puzzle to her. She’d find a way to fix this, to make you see her differently. And maybe then, everything would go back to normal.

But things didn’t go back to normal. The more you ignored her, the more she found herself thinking about you outside of class. You were unlike anyone she’d ever met. The anger, the coldness, it wasn’t something she was used to, and it fascinated her in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

Weeks passed, and Lorelai began finding excuses to cross paths with you more frequently, though she made it look casual. A wave in the hallway, a brief, fleeting glance during lectures, little things that seemed insignificant. But she was paying attention to the details. The way you carried yourself, the people you spoke to (which were few), the way you brushed off her presence like it meant nothing.

Slowly, her thoughts began to shift. What had started as guilt for a missed message turned into an obsession with understanding you. You weren’t just another person to her anymore, you were a challenge, someone she needed to figure out. Why didn’t you like her? Why didn’t you care? You weren’t cold to everyone, just to her.

The idea that someone could reject her so fully began to gnaw at her. She needed to fix it. She needed to know why.

But with every rejection, every sharp comment or dismissive glance, Lorelai’s need for your approval grew. It was subtle at first, a passing thought, a lingering glance. But over time, she found herself looking for you in places she knew you’d be, lingering longer than necessary in class just to feel that tension between you.

Each new interaction, no matter how brief, only fueled her need to understand you more. And the more she tried to fix things, the worse it got.

By the time a few months had passed, Lorelai was fully consumed by her need to be acknowledged by you. She had abandoned most of her old friendships, her focus narrowing entirely on you. Every move you made fascinated her, the way you seemed so unaffected by her presence, even as she became more desperate to understand you. It was maddening.

You had no idea how much space you were beginning to take up in her mind. And she would never admit it out loud, but she knew this wasn’t normal. No one had ever gotten under her skin like this before.

It had been months now. Months of you trying to shake her off, but Lorelai clung to you like a shadow, always there, always hovering just close enough to make her presence felt. Her apologies, once so constant, had evolved into something far more unsettling, a desperate, needy devotion that you couldn’t seem to escape.

She never left your side, always lingering just a few steps behind, waiting for any small scrap of attention. Her eyes never left you, watching, waiting, hoping for even the slightest glance. It was as if her entire world now revolved around you, her every thought consumed by how to stay close, how to keep you from drifting away.

You had tried everything to avoid her, changing your routes, ignoring her messages, even switching seats in lecture halls. But Lorelai always found you. Always managed to squeeze herself into your world, her presence pressing in on you like a weight you couldn’t shake off.

Today, it was worse. She had followed you again, walking silently behind you as you made your way to your favorite secluded spot on campus, the far east garden near the cadaver storage. You had come here hoping for some peace, but Lorelai, ever-persistent, had trailed after you like she always did.

“I missed you today,” her voice broke the silence, the tone dripping with an almost pitiful longing. “You didn’t sit in your usual spot… I thought something had happened to you.” Her words were soft, trembling slightly as though the mere idea of you being out of her reach caused her genuine distress.

You clenched your fists, the irritation boiling inside you. She never stopped. Always prying, always looking for something to cling to. “I’m fine,” you snapped, your patience fraying. “And I need to be alone.”

But Lorelai didn’t back away. If anything, she stepped closer, her eyes wide and pleading as though your words hadn’t even registered. “You don’t really mean that,” she murmured, her voice soft and fragile, like a glass about to break. “I know you’re just upset. But I can make it better. Let me help, okay?”

You stiffened, feeling her desperation like a physical force. It was suffocating. “Lorelai,” you hissed, your voice sharp, “I don’t need your help. I need space. You need to leave me alone.”

But instead of retreating, Lorelai’s eyes filled with a sudden intensity, a wild gleam of desperation sparking in them. “No, no, you don’t mean that,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if she could will your words away. “You’re just saying that because you’re stressed. You always say that when you’re upset. But I can fix it. I can make things right, I promise. I just need more time with you, that’s all.” Her voice cracked at the edges, the strain of holding herself together evident in every syllable.

You felt your pulse quicken, panic bubbling beneath the surface. “Are you insane?” you finally shouted, spinning around to face her. “I’ve told you a thousand times to leave me alone! What part of that don’t you get?”

For a moment, Lorelai froze, her eyes wide with shock. But the hurt you expected never came. Instead, her face softened, her lips trembling as she reached for you, her hand stopping just short of touching your arm. “No… you don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You need me. You might not realize it yet, but you do. I can’t leave you. I can’t!” The desperation in her voice hit you like a wave, her neediness palpable, like she couldn’t survive without being near you.

Your frustration exploded. “You’re suffocating me! Do you understand that? You’re obsessed!” You stepped back, putting more distance between the two of you, but Lorelai followed, her movements frantic now, her eyes wild with fear.

“No, please, ” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “I’ll do better, I swear. I can be what you need. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it! Please don’t push me away. I-I need you!” Her words tumbled out, her hands clasped tightly together as though begging for your mercy.

“I don’t want anything from you!” you shouted, your voice laced with frustration and exhaustion. “I want you to leave me the hell alone! Can’t you see how much you’re ruining everything? How much I hate this?”

Lorelai’s breath hitched at the word “hate,” her eyes watering as though the thought of your rejection was more painful than anything she could imagine. But instead of breaking, her lips twisted into a soft, almost adoring smile.

“You’re only saying that because you’re scared,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I know it’s hard for you to let someone in, but I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

You stared at her in disbelief, your stomach churning. Was she serious? Did she not hear a word you just said?

“Lorelai, you’re insane!” you barked, trying one last time to get through to her. “You’re not ‘helping’ me. You’re stalking me. You’re obsessed. I don’t want anything to do with you!”

For a second, you thought maybe, just maybe, your words had finally pierced through. Lorelai stood there, blinking rapidly, her eyes wide and glassy, as if processing what you had just said. But then, slowly, her lips curved into a smile, a needy, fragile thing that looked more like a cry for validation than an actual expression of joy.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered softly. Her voice was laced with an almost pitiful hope, a hope that you would just stop resisting and finally give in. “You’re just… upset. I know you don’t hate me. You couldn’t. I’m the only one who understands you, who can be there for you when everyone else leaves. I won’t leave you. I can’t.”

She took another step closer, her hands trembling as they reached toward you, as if touching you could somehow solidify her place in your life. You stepped back instinctively, but Lorelai didn’t seem to notice, her eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with a raw, desperate need for your approval, for your attention.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t shut me out. I’ll be better, I promise. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just… don’t leave me. I’ll make everything perfect. You’ll see.”

You could hardly breathe. The sheer weight of her obsession, her need for you, was overwhelming, suffocating. You had to make her understand. “I don’t care what you do,” you snapped, your voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “I don’t care if you apologize a million times. I want nothing to do with you, Lorelai. Get that through your head. Just leave me alone.”

But her eyes only softened more, as if your harsh words were nothing but the fleeting tantrums of a child who didn’t know what was good for them. “You’re just confused,” she whispered, “and that’s okay. I’ll help you. I’ll fix this.” She nodded to herself, already convinced of her version of reality. “You’ll understand one day.”

Her voice was soothing, like she was the one comforting you, her needy, obsessive gaze never wavering.

“Lorelai, just, ” you started, but she cut you off, stepping even closer, her voice a pleading, broken whisper.

“Please,” she said again, “just give me one more chance. Just one more, and I’ll make everything better. I promise. You’ll see. You’ll need me, just like I need you.”

It was terrifying. Her obsession had bloomed into something so twisted, so far beyond anything you had anticipated. And now, her desperation was laid bare, her entire sense of self wrapped up in this delusional, obsessive need to be everything for you. She wasn’t just stalking you anymore; she was trying to anchor herself to you, like she’d collapse without your attention.

“I don’t need you,” you said quietly, taking a deep breath. “And I never will.”

But Lorelai only smiled, a broken, fragile thing. “You say that now,” she whispered. “But I know the truth. And you will, too. One day.”

#yandere x reader #gn reader #yandere x darling #oc x reader #tw yandere #gender neutral #yandere oc #x reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere #female yandere #female yandere x reader #soft yandere #yandere female #yandere blog #Lorelai Marlowe

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thefanficmonster · 7 months

Text

Heavy Metal Lover

PART 2

Colby Brock x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Smoking, Brief Choking, Mentioned Past Suicides (at the location they're exploring), Suggestive Content, Arguments, Swearing

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Very Slight Smut, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Sam's best friend and Kat's best friend have been tangling antlers since the moment they met. So much for the couple's hopes of setting the two up.

NOTE: Sam and Kat are still together in this fic. This detail is not meant to be disrespectful to Sam's current girlfriend in any way.

"Why do we keep trying?"

Sam's question comes out as an exasperated sigh as he slouches further into the leather couch him and Kat have settled onto. Their rooms aren't ready yet, seeing as how their flight arrived way earlier than their calculations had suggested.

The hotel lobby is busy. The noise on any other day would be too much for the two to ignore and tune out but right now it's much more alike white noise. Jet-lag has really done them in this time. They'd been running away from it for long enough - hopping from plane to plane filming Hell Week is the same every year. But alas, by the fourth location they'd always shut down as has been the case since they stepped foot out of the plane and into the Las Vegas airport.

The only reason they're staying awake is so they don't get robbed blind. Well, that and to make sure the other two people on this trip don't murder one another.

"Because I still believe there's something there."

Y/N and Colby had successfully made it through the whole boarding process and flight without a single fight. Hell, Sam can't even recall them exchanging a single word until they arrived at the hotel. Maybe that's why it took them less than thirty seconds to break out in their usual bitter back-and-forth in the middle of the lobby. The only reason voices remained leveled was because they are indeed in public and they have appearances to upkeep.

The couple managed to subdue the perpetual assholes, convincing them to 'take five' which they thankfully went to take in opposite directions - Y/N headed for the parking lot to grab something she allegedly forgot in their rental car while Colby immediately clocked the patio across the lobby and quickly disappeared out of sight.

Kat watched them both, as if on cue, pluck their packs of cigarettes from their pockets on the way out.

That's what she means when she's trying to convince Sam of that something she sees. She can't explain it without the reasoning sounding like wishful thinking but she knows there is something. Something in the explosiveness in their interactions, the 'hatred' in their glares whenever they are tangling antlers over the smallest inconvenience, the way they look at each other when the other isn't looking.

Y/N and Colby are to Kat what the paranormal is to Sam. She wants to prove it to everyone, but mostly herself. Prove she didn't spend years poking holes in their apprehension for one another and pushing them together when the holy force clearly didn't want her to.

Or maybe that's what has been driving her.

Either way, she's truly grateful Sam is going along with her antics. Whether he believes what she's preaching or sees what she's seeing is up for debate, but at he's still supportive.

He'd never tell her this, but he isn't exactly trusting of the process. He more than anyone would want to see his best friend in a happy and healthy relationship. Does he believe that him and Y/N could have that? No. Not at all. Does he have faith Kat will succeed in her endeavors? Nope. Not even a tad. Even though she's stubborn and dedicated to this cause, he's never met a person more hard-headed than his best friend. Or at least he hadn't until he met Y/N.

You know the whole 'opposites attract' notion? The reason Sam and Kat's experiment subjects won't give the results they're hoping for is because they're too alike. In sync even - as the cigarettes instance that happened less than ten minutes ago would confirm. They're on the same wavelength headed in opposite directions. They're permanently heading for a collision - a fight equal to a ticking time bomb. Sam and Kat have to put out the fire the explosion of said bomb causes but that is a small price to pay to keep the two in each other's proximity.

"I don't know, babe...." Sam's shoulders slump downward, his arm automatically wrapping around Kat when she leans into his side. Hesitant as he may be, he's willing to go along with it. How is it any different from all the times Kat agreed to visit abandoned and haunted places with him. Hell, that's why she's here. She had no problem hopping on a plane to Vegas on such short notice just because she knew how much it'd mean to him. So...what's a little matchmaking in return? "But I believe your romance instincts." Looking down at her, he can't help but smile when he sees her absolutely beaming at him.

"I will not let you down."

She may try her best, but their subjects are two particularly unruly chess pieces.

Y/N, for example, is still out in the parking lot, getting antsier by the second. Anger refuses to let her stand still. Her jaw is still set, hot blood pumping through her veins. So many words she didn't get to spit out due to the public constraint are still stuck in her throat. Colby's words are replaying in her head, their edge causing her to dig her nails into her palms.

She needs to get some air, she just doesn't know where to find it. Maybe at the top of a mountain where she could scream her lungs out in peace. That's not really an option now, though, she she just settles for walking around the hotel, giving herself a couple more minutes before she rejoins Sam and Kat inside.

Eventually, she's made her way around to the side of the hotel that spreads out as an open patio, basking in the all-too-warm sun rays of this fine September day. Last year, the high temperatures were not such a problem while putting up with the fast paced dynamic of Hell Week because they actually filmed it in late October. This year, however, they chose to get it out of the wat sooner because their schedule would be packed all October. Kat's been working on a new album, Y/N has a deal with Crypt TV to make a horror movie and Sam and Colby will be doing Sam and Colby stuff. I don't think there is any other way to sum up what those two are doing.

Not that Y/N really cares what they do. The only reason she's versed into their schedules is because she lives with them. Yes, that is correct - much to her dismay, she found herself forced to live with the guys and Kat after an unexpected and unwarranted eviction from her apartment.

She exhausted all possible options long before caving and accepting Kat's offer to move in with the three. She was welcomed into the house with three different reactions: her best friend squealing with excitement; Sam offering her a warm welcome and helping hand in moving her stuff to her room; and last, and certainly least, was Colby who gave her nothing more than a 'hello' in passing.

None of them can really recall when this endless butting of heads started or how or why. Sam and Kat would equate their attempts at getting the two to get along to pushing same charges toward one another - the harder you push, the harder they push apart.

It's truly baffling where Kat found even an ounce of romance between the two.

Y/N wipes a few droplets of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand as she climbs the few stairs to reach the bar out on the patio, hoping to gulp down a glass of water after the cigarette she tossed a few minutes ago coupled with the intense heat.

"Hello there." The bartender greets her with a smile, his gaze trailing over her with zero subtlety. "What can I get ya?"

She chooses to ignore it, "Hi. Just a glass of water, please."

The man chuckles, reaching for a tall glass "You know, it's Happy Hour somewhere."

Despite his attempts at flirting - which Y/N is aware is part of his job - she finds herself letting out a small laugh, "Yeah well, not here. And not for me." She gratefully accepts the glass of ice cold water with a nod.

Before the guy can reply, a third voice butts into the conversation, "Yeah, definitely not for her. She's a raging alcoholic."

Stunned, Y/N turns to see a pair of electric blue eyes piercing her with a blank look that contradicts his extremely fake smile he's pinned on his face out of nothing more than politeness.

For a moment, due to their glaring match, they completely forget about the man they've roped into their mess. Thankfully, he speaks up, reminding them of his presence before he could witness any potential brawl, "Oh, um, I'm sorry to hear that."

Momentarily, Y/N drops the torch, tearing her gaze from Colby to acknowledge the bartender directly, "Yeah, no big deal."

Her teeth grit together in absolute rage when she hears the asshole beside her snort something alike a laugh, "Tragic, really. Can I get a vodka cran?"

Y/N busies her hand with holding the glass so she doesn't give into the idea of punching him, "Someone clearly follows that Happy Hour rule."

"I'll have you know..." Colby turns his whole body to face her now, as if challenging her, "...it's not for me." The tilt of his head directs her gaze to an attractive brunette sitting alone at a table, scrolling through her phone.

"Lovely." She spits the word like poison on her tongue, "I'll go tell her to blink twice if she needs help."

"You need help." The lack of bite to his statement stuns her more than if he were to yell it at her. It's an effective throw-off considering she doesn't immediately jump back or smack his hand away when he reaches for the pocket of her shorts, swiping her lighter, "Mine's out of juice." He explains, sticking it in his back pocket before turning to the bartender once more, handing him a ten dollar bill, "And lemon iced tea for my friend here, she's looking a little parched."

With that and a brisk nod in Y/N's direction, Colby excuses himself from the interaction and heads back to the model of a woman who's quick to flash him a bright smile when she notices him approaching.

A sickening feeling settles in her gut. She can't believe any woman gets wound around his finger so easily. She might be biased but she just simply doesn't see it. She can't understand what gets girls within a five mile radius of him swooning.

That smile so many deem charming she finds cynical and fake. His eyes, although a pretty color, are hollow apart from the twinge of evil she sees every time they glare at her. His flirty, charismatic words could make her puke if exposed to them for an extended period of time. In short, she finds him repulsive.

Had they gotten off on a better foot maybe she would've even ended up in his bed on a few occasions by now. As they stand now, she'd rather sleep with Satan himself.

Still, she takes the iced tea, mostly out of curtesy but also because she is indeed dehydrated. She spares the table Colby has now taken a seat at a brisk glance just to find her eyes met with a pair of piercing blue ones once more.

She could strangle him, theoretically, but she won't. Not with this many witnesses around. Instead, she heads inside, looking for Sam and Kat in hopes of getting the last fifteen minutes out of her head.

* * * *

"What's up guys, it's Sam and Colby! And today we'll be investigating the Oasis Motel in Las Vegas. Known for its dark and unexplainable past and the reputation that precedes it today." Sam explains as they begin filming the intro to their video.

The group is currently standing outside the aforementioned motel. The exterior they were met with upon arrival was enough for Kat and Y/N to exchange a particular look. It's in an area off the strip, the surroundings accentuating the atmosphere and amplifying the creep factor.

"Unfortunately, we won't be able to stay at the hotel. They haven't been renting rooms for close to a decade to avoid any potential casualties. And by that I mean - suicides." Colby says, reciting the notes he both wrote and memorized on the car ride here.

"Yeah, this motel is known for two specific suicides that happened here. Specifically in room 20." Sam adds, listing the sightings that have been allegedly witnessed by staff and guests alike before the motel was shut down for business.

The place now just stands ominously as a haunted attraction of sorts. It's meant to honor the memory of the two people who took their own life there but it's clear they have purposefully added to the fear factor to attract more people like Sam and Colby.

That still doesn't take away from the fact that just looking at the building settles an uneasy feeling in Y/N's gut.

She's always been curious about the paranormal but never went out of her way to seek answers. The only reason she's been joining the gang for paranormal investigations is because Kat often begs her to. And she's always had a hard time turning down her best friend, about anything.

So, here she is, sighing as she follows Sam and Kat inside the barely lit lobby of the motel where the staff member who's gonna be giving them a tour is waiting for them.

Before she can fully cross over the doorstep, she feels a finger trail over her arm, running over the very prominent goosebumps that have appeared on her skin.

"Aww, is someone scared?" The mockery in Colby's voice drains any sort of fear or uncertainty she was feeling before.

She whirls around to face him, nostrils flaring when she sees his coy smirk, "Get your fucking hands off me before I knock you the fuck out." She snarls between clenched teeth.

His smile only widens, becoming a tad more genuine now, "That's more like it. Don't be a pussy."

She's about to retaliate with a string of insults that's make a sailor blush when Sam, thankfully, interrupts her, "Guys! Come on!"

The fucker was saved by divine intervention this once, but Sam won't always be there to shield him from Y/N's wrath - he's very aware of that. Time and time again they've screamed their lungs out at one another just to storm off to fill them with nicotine for a potential round two.

In a way, that is a love language too, right? Well, if you ask Kat, that is. Though she isn't completely wrong. The opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. And these two are most definitely not indifferent to one another.

Speaking of Kat, she doesn't fail to sneak a peek at the hostile interaction between the two. She nudged Sam's ribs to point it out and smacked his arm when he put a stop to it. Although that was the best course of action to prevent Colby losing any teeth tonight, curtesy of Y/N's fist.

Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration.

She may have spit a million threats his way over the many year they've known each other, but never once did she go through with them.

"Hi, guys. I'm Scott, and it's an honor to be welcoming y'all to the Oasis." The man, who they now know as Scott, introduces himself as he turns on an old tall lamp by what used to be the front desk of the motel. "I hope you're ready to capture some great footage tonight. We're giving you a time frame till 2 AM which is an exception we rarely make, but this one over here is a smooth talker." He says, smiling slyly over at Colby who was the one that placed the call to the motel before they added the place to their itenirary.

Colby, in turn, shrugs, a grin plastering itself on his face, "I mean..." He chuckles, causing Y/N to roll her eyes, "No, jokes aside, I can't thank you enough for bending the rules for us."

It baffles her how charming he can be. She can't help but wonder at times why she wasn't deemed worthy of this pleasant side of him. Not that she hasn't grown somewhat fond of their dysfunctional dynamic - not that she'd ever admit it - but she still wishes she knew.

And she hates it.

Instead of dwelling on it, she busies herself with the fear that's still lingering on the backburner. She'd much rather be scared of whatever's waiting for them in this motel than what she might find if she keeps digging in her mind.

* * * *

"What is your fucking problem?!"

The tension has been building all night, both between Y/N and Colby and from the paranormal aspect of it all.

Glares thrown in from across the room. Light, supposedly accidental touches, some even meant to startle her. Lingering behind her or always looming close to her, reminiscent of her literal shadow.

He's rarely so bold with his proximity to her. He respects her personal space and tends to keep himself at an arm's length regardless of the place they're in. But for some reason, not quite clear to him yet, he's been keeping himself close to her the whole night. Either it's from a certain need to protect her or an inherent need to annoy her into continuously acknowledging his presence, he can't tell.

But by now it's reached a boiling point.

What pushed the situation past Y/N's tolerance threshold was getting scared out of her skin by Colby who, by design of the challenge, wasn't supposed to be anywhere near her. They were less than five minutes into their solo investigations - Sam, ever the challenger, took room 20; Kat is in the restaurant, Y/N is in room 33 and Colby was supposed to take on the attic.

However, he didn't quite last long.

At the first sound of mild panic coming from room 33, which is directly underneath the attic, Colby immediately took off down the stairs, nearly taking the door off its hinges and scaring the ever-loving daylight out of Y/N.

That is what provoked this reaction from her. And now that we're up to speed...

"I thought you were in danger." He explains, quietly shutting the door behind him as he approaches the bed where she's sat.

"Jesus, Colby, you gave me a heart attack!" She groans, squeezing the bridge of her nose in frustration, suddenly antsy in her seat, "I'm not new to this shit! I've been doing this for years with you guys! I get that you may not see me but that doesn't mean I'm not there!" Her heart is still racing, her breathing shallow. Her chest is heaving despite the hand she's placed overtop it in an inefficient attempt at calming herself down.

A few steps closer on his part make her even more uneasy. She gets up to her feet to level the ground between them somewhat. There is something so vulnerable in sitting down with him standing over her. Dare I say, intimate.

"I see you." He says almost bitterly, "Oh, I fucking see you, Y/N. You're always there, always in my viewpoint. Always just a step out of arm's reach. And I hate it. Or try to. You piss me off so bad I can't even put it into words without sounding fucking insane!"

He's close, too fucking close. The chain hanging from his jeans brushes against the exposed skin of her thigh, sending chills all over her body. It makes her wish her shorts were longer. Makes her wish she could push him away, keep her guard up, keep up her mean front.

But when fingers tangle in her hair, his hand cupping the back of her head, she knows it's too late for any of that.

Their lips are barely an inch apart, the two practically sharing the same breath. Still, her pettiness dies screaming with one last whispered, "Fuck you."

With that, all barriers, both physical and metaphorical, come crashing down as their lips collide with the force of seven years worth of tension. Seven years of denial masked as aggression and annoyance. Every word spat out in anger, every glare, every passing touch, every 'flirty' moment. It's all condensed into a hostile collision of lips, biting teeth and battling tongues.

Y/N's hands intertwine at the back of his neck while his travel down to her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. Their connection is airtight, the heat between their bodies increasing the need to pull back to breathe, though that's the last thing they wanna do. It's been far too long for it to end this soon.

Her legs threaten to give out. It's all too much too fast and too unbelievable. Thankfully, Colby seems to feel the same.

He softly pushes her down on the bed, smiling in the kiss at the zero complaints he receives in response.

"You're so sweet when you wanna be." He pulls back for just a second, his hand cupping her chin.

She's quick to smack it away. He expected nothing else. "Shut the fuck up."

He chuckles almost darkly as his hand now settles around her throat, "Adorable." He's aware he's pushing his luck, but then again it's always a gamble with her. This time, he might just luck out.

Their lips have no time to reconnect though, much to their dismay.

"Colby! Y/N! Where are you guys?!"

Sam's voice reaches them from the lobby downstairs, forcing them apart instantly. A deer in headlights look flashes across both their faces as they hurry to create as much distance between them as possible.

Colby swears he sees any hope he had sink right before his eyes. He watches the realization of what just happened dawn on Y/N. Now that the heat of the moment has evaporated, it becomes all too real and all too clear to her what a mistake that was.

"Guys?!" This time it's Kat's voice bouncing off the walls, coupled with the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He's panicking, not really sure as to exactly why. Whether it's because he'll have to explain this predicament to his friends or because he can see Y/N starting to regret said predicament in real time, he's not sure. Either way, he needs to come up with something, fast. If his brain can kick back into gear after his whole world was briefly thrown off its axis.

"Go." It comes out as a whisper but it bounces around in his head like an earthquake.

"What?" His tone mimics hers, afraid that a single note higher would ruin what little tranquility they've managed to maintain while there's full-on storms raging in their minds.

Her eyes are trained on the floor, hollow with a thousand yard stare. She can't look at him, unsure as to why. She just knows she can't. "Go. Get out. This never happened." When she finally wills herself to meet his eyes she can feel the burning of tears at the back of her throat, "Forget this ever happened."

Footsteps grow closer but they still have leeway to get away with it with just a white lie.

"Go. Now!" She repeats, a bit more fervor in her words now. She gives him no room to reply as she ushers him away but he isn't capable of stringing words together right now anyway.

So, he obliges, going against all his instincts telling him the opposite. And he does so on time as well, shutting the door behind him just as a tear rolls down Y/N's cheek.

What a fucking mistake, they once again sync up, sharing the same exact thought. Though they silently agreed to forget everything that just happened, they're both well aware it won't leave their brain for the foreseeable future.

If ever.

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