btsxarmy

this was also inspired by one of my favorite nsfw asmrists on reddit u/-basilbasilbasil- and their audio about pussy inspection it just screams this scenario which is why i added those tags just in case if someone reads it and finds it uncomfortable! was also totally inspired by fumabun’s kissing ranking, just translated it to pussy eating lolz anyways

“okay. pretend like they aren’t wet already.” 

“how am i supposed to do that.” 

“just pretend, dude. i’m teaching you how to eat box, they’re not supposed to be wet already.” 

your bottom half is already bare, pussy open to both nicholas and maki. embarrassingly wet in front of them, you still couldn’t believe that maki– your fuckass boyfriend– was scared to try eating you out, so he asked nicholas– his best friend– to eat you out. it’s hard to pretend to sit there like a sex toy for their use, but i guess it’s all worth it for maki’s experience– and better yet your sex life and pleasure. 

“some guys just lay there, some guys just spread their legs, but you gotta hook your arms under their legs like this,” nicholas demonstrates by using his strong arms to clutch onto your legs. his hands slide down your inner thighs to spread them out a little more. maki sits up further on your bed to see nicholas’ next moves. “see when you have them like this, you have your eye on the prize.” maki nods at nicholas as he starts lowering his head. 

he flicks his tongue only slightly against your clit. you jolt at the sudden movement, “you wanna start off by only focusing on the clit. this is the clit. remember it. don’t be stupid and not know where it is because if the two of you break up, that’s gonna spread.” maki side eyed nicholas at his passive comment only for a bit before nicholas continued. “bob your tongue like this– it makes them wet, making them ready for you to eat up.” although nicholas’ tongue was out, causing his speech to get slightly unintelligible, maki still knew what he was talking about.

as nicholas carries on, your thighs twitch and soft moans fall from your lips. maki was good for calling nicholas out of everyone to eat you out. nicholas pull back only slightly, “see how they’re flowing? you can also thumb at them like this to get the same effect. just focus on the clit for a little bit.” nicholas’ thumb is rough, different from maki’s hands. your breath hitches and start breaking when your head is thrown back in your pillows. “see that? notice how they react too. if they’re unfazed, that’s how you know you’re fucked.” 

maki simply nods and hums once more. “and listen too. listen for the smallest things. you wanna know if they’re groaning like they’re hurting, humming like they’re bored, or actually whimpering for you.” nicholas points at his ear to indicate his ‘teachings’ to maki. 

“okay, after a few minutes, clit stuff isn’t it anymore, focus on their hole,” nicholas starts off first before coming back down to your pussy. “pussy juice is addicting, so don’t go all in. savor it. if you go crazy style, they’re just gonna get weirded out.” maki peers over your thighs once more to watch nicholas. “watch. take your tongue, cup it like this,” nicholas shows maki his tongue slightly curled before coming back down, “scoop up their wetness.” nicholas uses his curled tongue to push your leaking pussy juice against his tongue to taste you. nicholas smacks his lips once before muttering and flexing his jaw, “fuck, your girl tastes good.” maki jerks his head, “wait, what’d you say?” nicholas shakes his head, “nothing.” 

continuing on, nicholas starts up once more, “use your tongue and mouth at their entire pussy– like make out with it– watch.” nicholas uses his plush lips to envelop your pussy. his tongue drags up your labia and back up to your clit while closing his lips around it. maki’s looking intensely as if he’s taking notes up in his brain. nicholas keeps at it, “here, you kinda just freestyle. watch how they move and react. you might wanna snake your tongue down… kiss up in it… bite and suck at their lips… flick your tongue inside… tongue them back up… do whatever they like.” as nicholas talked, he reciprocated his words to his actions. if he talked about tonguing you, he tongued you. if he kisses you, he kisses you. almost down to an art. 

nicholas’ hands found themselves squeezing at the flesh of your thighs and ass as he watches you unfold on his tongue. your hands are gripping at your sheets, knees are bent up, legs closing in on the sides of his head. while your cries are growing louder. each moan, whine, and croak of pleasure is getting nicholas so fucking hard. his pants are tent up by how his cock is straining at his boxers. shit. if he had a girl too, he’d feel so fucking bad, but your pussy is heaven to him. the way you’re melting on his tongue and taste like pure gold. thank god this isn’t technically cheating on maki. 

right when you feel the knot in your stomach inches away from snapping, nicholas pulls away. you whine, “what–! fuck–!” nicholas lips his lips from your sweet juices, his eyes are zeroing into yours. fuck. he feels so wrong for not letting you cum but, you are maki’s girl. “you’re up, man. eat your girl out like i just showed you.” maki exhales deeply before switching with nicholas, “i’ll do it better than you. no one will make my girl cum like i do.” 

“sure, dude.”

might extend this with the maki part and make it like a ramble?

So instead of peace, instead of rest, you ended your days with his voice echoing around the apartment.

“What the— no way! No way!” he’d yell, chair scraping back against the floor.

“Bro, you’re throwing, you’re actually throwing—” followed by his own laugh, rough and breathless.

Sometimes you could even hear the voices of Ni-ki or Jay bleeding through his headset when he shouted back at them. It was like sharing a room with all three of them, like they’d set up their game in the middle of your walls.

So while you were curled in bed, staring at the ceiling and begging your brain to shut down before morning classes, you had to fall asleep to the sound of him cussing, groaning, and laughing. Sometimes it was so loud you pressed a pillow over your head, groaning into the cotton until your ears rang. Sometimes you muttered threats under your breath, “If he screams one more time, I swear—” But eventually, exhaustion always won, and you drifted off with his voice buzzing faintly in your dreams like static on a radio.

It was annoying. Maddening, even.

You’d tried to get him to calm down before, leaning against his doorway one night with arms crossed, asking if he could please keep his voice down after midnight. Heeseung had looked up from his glowing screens, eyes big and apologetic, nodding quickly like he understood. “Yeah, yeah, my bad. I’ll be quieter.”

And for maybe ten minutes, he was.

Then the next round started, and it was right back to him shouting at his teammates, voice carrying through the thin walls like he was right next to you. It was like your words had gone in one ear and out the other.

So you tried other solutions.

Melatonin that only made you groggy in the mornings. Earplugs that fell out halfway through the night. A playlist of soothing whale sounds you found on YouTube — which honestly only made it worse, because now you had both orcas and Heeseung in your ears. And none of them were good solutions, not when you needed to actually hear your alarm.

So you bit through it.

You overloaded on caffeine during lessons, clutched your energy drinks like lifelines, and half the time you were fighting sleep before your professors had even started the lecture. Then you’d drag yourself home, collapse face-first onto your bed, and barely lift your head when Heeseung passed by your door on his way to his shift.

“Later,” he’d call softly.

And you’d grunt something back that wasn’t really a word, too tired to bother.

Bastard.

You remembered you had once actually tried to find other cheap apartment listings. You’d been fed up one night, eyes gritty from exhaustion, heart pounding from too much caffeine, and you thought — there has to be something better than this. Even if it was smaller, even if it meant sharing a bathroom, even if it was farther from campus.

You’d pulled up the rental sites, scrolling through dingy photos of half-basements and barely furnished rooms. None of them looked great, but at least they promised quiet.

That was when Heeseung came out of his room. You’d heard his door creak open, then the shuffle of his socks down the hall, but you figured he was on autopilot, grabbing snacks.

You hadn’t expected him to stop.

To lean over your chair.

To spot your open tab.

“What’s this?” His voice was light, curious, but you could feel the weight behind it as he tilted his head to read the page. Before you could even answer, he let out a nervous laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of moving out already. You can’t. You’re, like, the best roommate I could ever ask for.”

You’d blinked up at him, startled, muttering something about just looking. But he didn’t let it go.

He crouched down beside your chair, eyes big and pleading, rattling off reasons so fast you didn’t know how to respond. “Seriously, I’m clean, I’m chill, we get along, right? I don’t bring random people home. I don’t eat your food—okay, except that one time, but I replaced it! And honestly, do you know how hard it is to find someone you can live with without going insane? I can’t just… I don’t want to start over with someone else.”

You’d hesitated. You’d opened your mouth to tell him it wasn’t about him, not really, it was about the noise, the sleepless nights, the way you were slowly burning yourself out.

But then he’d looked at you like that — so sincere, so desperate, like losing you would mean losing something bigger than just a roommate.

And you folded.

You’d clicked out of the site, shutting your laptop with a sigh. You told yourself it wasn’t worth hurting his feelings. That it wasn’t worth starting over somewhere worse.

So you tried other solutions, and most of them involved sleeping over at friends’ places, anywhere that meant at least one night of uninterrupted sleep. But every time you did, Heeseung seemed to notice immediately.

The first night you were gone, he texted to ask if you were okay. The second time, there were half a dozen messages waiting for you before you’d even finished brushing your teeth at your friend’s.

“Where are you?”“You didn’t say you were leaving.”“Did something happen? Did I do something?”“Please answer.”

By the third attempt, your notifications were nothing short of a flood: messages stacked on top of each other, calls coming in one after another until your phone felt hot in your hand. It got to the point where you had to put it on silent, shoving it face-down and pretending it wasn’t that bad.

You told yourself he was just worried. Maybe he had separation anxiety, maybe he just didn’t have many people around. Still, it felt off — the intensity, the way he wouldn’t give you room to breathe.

When you got back, of course, he was all apologies. He stood in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, mumbling about how he hadn’t meant to freak out, how he just panicked when he didn’t hear from you.

You brushed it off, saying it was fine.

Personally, it was not fine. But okay — he was clingy. That was just Heeseung. He worried too much, texted too often, hovered a little closer than he needed to. None of it was enough to call him out over. It was just one of those things you told yourself you’d get used to.

Except the more you tried to spend nights somewhere else, the harder it became.

At first it was small things. You’d mention plans with friends and find him asking for details that felt too specific — “Where exactly are you staying?” or “What time do you think you’ll be back?” Then, when you got home the next day, he would already know. He’d mention how late your bus had been or that it had rained near your friend’s place. Little comments that made you wonder how he even knew.

Soon, he didn’t need to ask. He’d already have the answers.

Your phone would light up with messages before you’d even left campus: “You’re not staying out again, right?” or “I can come pick you up.” The one time you didn’t reply, he showed up outside campus, claiming he’d been nearby anyway.

When you confronted him about it, trying to laugh it off, he only smiled that same sheepish, boyish smile and said he just worried. That he liked knowing you were safe.

You wanted to believe that. You wanted it to be simple.But when you went to stay with a friend again and came back the next morning to find him waiting by the door — eyes tired, voice soft as he said, “You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” — the reassurance felt thinner than ever.

You hadn’t meant to stay away that long. Three nights at Wonyoung’s had just sort of… happened. You’d lost track of time between studying and catching up, and when she offered for you to stay another night, it felt like a small piece of normal life you didn’t want to give up. You’d turned your phone off halfway through the second morning; the constant buzzing had started to make your chest ache.

By the time you came home, the hallway outside your apartment felt strangely still. You had your key in hand when the door swung open before you’d even touched the lock.

For a second you didn’t recognise Heeseung. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them dark and puffy; his hair stuck up in flattened clumps, and his bottom lip looked raw, bitten open. The expression on his face—wide-eyed and desperate—made your pulse stumble.

Before you could say a word, he was already closing the distance, arms wrapping around you so tightly that your phone slipped from your hand.

“You can’t do that again,” he said into your shoulder, his voice cracking halfway through. “You can’t just disappear like that. I thought something happened to you, I—” He pulled back just enough to look at you, words spilling over themselves in a rush. “I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t even eat, I just kept thinking—what if you weren’t safe? You didn’t answer any of my calls, or my texts, I—”

“Heeseung—”

But he was already sinking down in front of you, his knees hitting the floor with a dull, heavy sound. His hands came together like he was praying — fingers laced tight, knuckles whitening under the strain — and when he looked up at you, his eyes were wide, rimmed red, shining in a way that made your breath hitch.

“I’ll stop,” he said, the words tumbling over themselves. “I’ll stop, I swear. I’ll be quiet, I won’t shout at night anymore—just, please, please don’t do that again. Don’t leave me here wondering where you are.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw and uneven.

You froze, staring down at him, at the way his shoulders shook slightly with every breath.

“Heeseung,” you began, trying to sound calm, but the sight of him — on the floor, trembling, his face twisted with something between guilt and panic — knocked the words right out of you.

“I thought something happened to you,” he went on, voice breaking. “You didn’t answer, you didn’t text, you just—disappeared. Do you have any idea what that feels like?” His laugh was short and breathless, half a sob. “I couldn’t sleep. I sat here the whole night just… waiting. Listening to the door. Every little sound, I thought it was you coming back.”

You swallowed, guilt prickling at the back of your throat. “Heeseung, I was just staying with friends. You’re overreacting—”

He shook his head violently. “No. You don’t understand.” His hands came up, clutching at his hair for a moment before falling limp at his sides. “It’s too quiet when you’re gone. I can’t think straight. The silence—” He looked up at you again, eyes wild, voice hoarse. “It’s torture not hearing you around the apartment. Not knowing you’re here.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You stared down at him, still kneeling there, his breathing uneven like he’d just run for miles. The sight of him — usually so put-together, so casual — now reduced to this frantic, pleading mess twisted something sharp in your chest.

You told yourself it was pity. That it was guilt for ignoring his messages, for not realizing how lonely he must’ve been. But there was something else underneath it too, something that felt a lot like fear.

Heeseung reached out slightly, not touching you, just holding his hand in the space between you as if the distance itself hurt. “Please,” he whispered. “Just stay. I’ll be good. I’ll fix it. You won’t even know I’m here if that’s what you want.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face. “Heeseung, why are you making such a big deal out of this? It’s not like I vanished. I was just staying with friends.”

He gave a small, almost disbelieving laugh — a sound that wasn’t quite right. “You did vanish,” he said softly. “You were gone...”

Your stomach tightened.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you sighed. “If you can actually keep your promise tonight,” you said quietly, “I’ll stop sleeping over at other people’s places.”

He went completely still for a heartbeat, and then his whole body seemed to exhale. His shoulders slumped, and a shaky, almost disbelieving laugh slipped from him as he nodded. “I will. I promise,” he said quickly, too quickly. “You’ll see. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, trying not to look back. Behind you, the door clicked shut, and the lock turned softly in the quiet.

Dinner that night had been strangely calm. 

Heeseung had already set the table by the time you came out of your room, a couple of dishes still steaming. He smiled at you like nothing had happened earlier in the hallway, the same easy curve of his mouth you were used to.

“I made too much,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You’d hesitated, but the food actually smelled good, and you were too tired to start another argument. So you ate. He told you about work, about some glitch in a game he was playing, about how he’d started watching a new series. For once, the apartment felt normal.

Afterward, you’d taken a shower, letting the hot water wash away the stiffness in your shoulders. By the time you pulled on a shirt and climbed into bed, you could barely keep your eyes open. You didn’t even remember turning off the light.

For the first time in weeks, you slept. Deep, uninterrupted sleep that swallowed you whole. No voices through the wall, no faint laughter, no half-dreamed footsteps in the hall. Just warmth, darkness, and quiet.

When you woke up the next morning, sunlight was spilling across the floor. Your body felt light, your head clear. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt that rested.

Maybe things were finally settling. Maybe the promise he’d made the night before had actually meant something.

On your way out, you passed his door. It was closed, the light underneath it still off. The apartment was completely silent.

You smiled to yourself, thinking he was probably asleep as you locked the door behind you and headed out. 

Inside, the apartment stayed still for a moment. Then Heeseung’s door opened. He stepped out quietly, barefoot, moving like someone afraid to disturb the air. The light from the hallway spilled across his face, washing out the shadows under his eyes..

Your door wasn’t locked. You never locked it in the mornings; why would you, when it was only the two of you? The thought made something small and feverish flicker in his chest. He turned the handle slowly, easing the door open.

Your room was still filled with the faint scent of your perfume, the warmth of sleep lingering in the sheets. The curtains let in a line of sunlight that cut across the bed, catching on the edge of the blanket you’d kicked off in the night.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t touch much at first — just looked. The details fascinated him: the indentation where your head had rested, the half-closed notebook on the desk, the cup of coffee you hadn’t finished. 

He walked to the dresser, fingers hovering over the handle before stopping himself. His fingers twitched, itching to cross the line he’d been toeing for weeks. The silence of the apartment pressed against him, urging him forward, and he gave in. His hand found the top drawer, the one he’d seen you open countless times in passing glances, always so casual, so unaware. The handle was cool under his fingers, and he pulled it open slowly, as if savoring the act. Inside, neatly folded, were your things — soft fabrics in muted colors, lace edges peeking out from the stacks. His breath hitched.

He reached in, fingers brushing against the delicate material, and pulled out a pair of panties — simple, white, with a faint floral pattern. He held them up and brought them to his face. The scent was faint but unmistakable, a mix of your laundry detergent and something distinctly you. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply, a low groan rumbling in his throat. The sound was primal, unchecked, and it sent a jolt straight through him.

His free hand moved almost on instinct, tugging the waistband down just enough to free himself. His cock was already hard, straining against the fabric, and the relief of releasing it made him shudder. He wrapped his fingers around himself, slow at first, the panties still pressed to his nose as his mind spiraled back to the night before.

You’d been so still, so perfect, sprawled across your bed in the deep sleep he’d orchestrated. The dose he’d slipped into your dinner — subtle, tasteless, just enough to keep you under — had worked like a charm. He’d stood over you, heart pounding, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted with soft, unaware breaths. He hadn’t planned to touch you, not at first. But then his fingers had grazed your skin, and you’d reacted — a small, sleepy moan, your body arching ever so slightly into his touch.

It had undone him.

He’d knelt beside you, careful not to wake you, his fingers exploring, teasing, drawing out those delicious little sounds. You’d whimpered for him, even in your haze, and it had taken every ounce of restraint not to cross that final line. The dose wasn’t strong enough for that, he’d told himself, though the thought of it — of sinking into you right then, claiming you completely — had nearly broken him.

Now, in your empty room, his strokes quickened, the memory of your moans looping in his mind. The panties in his hand were a poor substitute, but they were enough to fuel the fantasy. He imagined you waking up just enough to know it was him, to want it, to beg for it. His breath came in sharp gasps, his grip tightening as he leaned against the dresser for support. The room spun, the sunlight blurring into a haze, and he whispered your name under his breath.

He pictured you stirring just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes heavy with want, your voice pleading for him. The fantasy was vivid, almost real, and it pushed him to the edge. With a low, guttural moan, he threw his head back, the release hitting him hard. His cum spilled over the panties still in the drawer, coating the delicate fabric in a way that felt both wrong and electrifying. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through him. A slow, shaky inhale, then an exhale, and a low giggle slipped from his lips — a sound that was equal parts relief and something darker.

He glanced down at the mess he’d made, the ruined panties now tangled with his release. His lips curved into a small smile as he used the pair still in his hand to wipe himself off, the act almost ritualistic. He tugged his sweatpants back up, the waistband snapping softly against his skin, and took a moment to steady himself against the dresser. The mirror caught his reflection — flushed cheeks, wild eyes, a flicker of satisfaction that made him look alive in a way he hadn’t in weeks.

He couldn’t leave the evidence behind. Not when you were still blissfully unaware, moving through your days with that easy smile, oblivious to the way he watched you, wanted you. He gathered the soiled panties from the drawer, careful not to disturb the others, as he moved quietly out of your room, closing the door with a soft click.

In the bathroom, he ran the tap, the sound of water masking the faint hum of his own thoughts. He washed the panties carefully, his fingers working the fabric under the stream, the soap erasing his traces. It was methodical, almost tender, the way he cleaned them, as if preserving something sacred. Once they were spotless, he wrung them out and tucked them away to dry later, somewhere you’d never think to look.

He couldn’t afford to be careless. Not yet. Not when you were still his unsuspecting piece.

The day had dragged by in that mid-week haze of lectures and half-finished coffee. By the time you made it back to the apartment building, the sun was already low enough to paint the hall windows orange. You texted a classmate—Minho—about coming up for a quick study session before your next exam.

Heeseung’s schedule was predictable: asleep in the mornings, gone by the time you came home. You hadn’t heard him all day, so you assumed he was already at work. The idea of a quiet apartment felt like a small relief.

When you pushed the door open, the lights were off and the air still. “See? Empty,” you said over your shoulder, stepping inside first. You dropped your bag by the couch, flipped on a lamp, and started gathering your notes from the coffee table.

You were halfway through explaining a problem set when you heard the door to Heeseung’s room creak.

The sound was small but sharp enough to freeze you mid-sentence. You turned, heart skipping.

Heeseung stood there in the doorway. His hair was tousled, a hoodie thrown on like he’d just woken up. His expression wasn’t angry exactly—just unreadable, like he was trying to work out why someone else was standing in his living room.

“Oh—hey,” you started, forcing a smile. “I thought you were at work.”

“I called in,” he said. His voice was low, flat in a way that made the air feel heavier. Then he looked at Minho, gaze flicking from his face to the open notebook on the table. “Didn’t know we had company.”

You laughed, the sound a little too high. “We’re just going over notes. He’s in my class.”

Heeseung nodded slowly. “Right. Notes.” He stepped further into the room, past you, and opened the fridge. The sound of the door popping open was louder than it should have been. “Do you guys want something to drink?”

“No, we’re good,” you said quickly.

Minho smiled, oblivious. “I’ll probably head out soon anyway. Don’t want to interrupt.” 

He gathered his papers, muttered a polite goodbye, and left.

When the door clicked shut behind him, the apartment fell silent again. Heeseung leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“I didn’t know you were staying home,” you said finally.

“Guess I forgot to mention it.” He smiled then—small, thin, and not quite reaching his eyes. “Next time, maybe just let me know if someone’s coming over. Yeah?” There was nothing in his tone you could call threatening, but something about it made your pulse quicken anyway. You nodded, murmuring a quiet “yeah, sure.”

Heeseung’s smile widened a fraction. “Good.” He turned back toward his room, door closing behind him with a soft click.

You stood there for a long second, staring at the wood grain of the door, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Heeseung could be quiet, yes — reserved, awkward sometimes — but that look he’d given you? That wasn’t the usual shy, apologetic Heeseung. That was something colder, distant in a way that didn’t fit.

You waited for a sound, for the creak of his chair or the hum of his computer to come through the wall, but nothing came. The apartment stayed utterly still.

You shook your head, muttering to yourself, “He’s just tired.”

Shrugging it off, you gathered your things and headed to your room. The guilt crept in anyway, a thin whisper in the back of your mind as you changed and started the shower. You hadn’t done anything wrong, you reminded yourself. You hadn’t. It was just a study session. You were allowed to have friends.

The water was hot enough to sting, helping the thoughts slide off. By the time you stepped out, wrapped in a towel and blinking at the steam, you felt lighter.

That was when you noticed the bottle.

It sat neatly on your nightstand, half-full, the plastic still beaded with condensation. You didn’t remember leaving it there, but you’d been so rushed that morning it could’ve been from then. Without thinking, you picked it up and took a long drink. The water was cool, faintly metallic, but it didn’t register as strange.

You changed into pajamas, flipped open your notebook, and tried to focus. The words swam after a few pages, blurring as your eyelids grew heavy. The day’s exhaustion caught up to you all at once, and you yawned so hard your eyes watered.

You told yourself you’d read one more chapter. Then maybe another.

You didn’t make it that far.

By the time your head hit the pillow, you were already halfway gone, the room fading into soft, hazy darkness. You barely managed to pull the blanket over your shoulder before sleep took you completely.

Hours slipped past in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the wall clock. The shadows stretched long as the night deepened, until the numbers glowed 2:03 a.m. on the display.

Your door opened with the slow, careful turn of a handle.

Heeseung stepped through the narrow gap, bare feet making no sound against the floor. He paused just inside the room, watching you for a moment, waiting for any sign that you might stir. But you didn’t. Your breathing stayed slow, steady — the deep rhythm of someone completely asleep.

He moved closer. The dim light from the hall touched your face, softening the edges of your features. Heeseung’s eyes lingered there, unreadable.

After a long minute, he reached for the half-empty water bottle on your nightstand. His fingers closed around it, and a faint smile tugged at his lips — small, tired, but oddly satisfied. He turned it once in his hand as if it were proof of something only he understood.

Then his attention shifted back to you.

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, testing the weight of your unconsciousness. You didn’t stir, your breathing steady, deep, utterly unaware.

Satisfied, he let his hand linger, trailing down the curve of your jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing your lower lip. His touch was soft, almost tender, but there was a tremor in his fingers, a barely contained need. He shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, and reached for the edge of your blanket. Slowly, carefully, he pulled it down, the fabric sliding past your hips, your legs, until it pooled at your feet. 

His gaze darkened as he moved to your shirt, his fingers hooking under the hem. He tugged it upward, inch by inch, exposing the soft plane of your stomach, then higher, until your breast was bared to the dim light. A low groan rumbled in his throat, the sound raw, almost pained, as he stared. Your nipple, soft and untouched, drew his focus, and his breath hitched. He glanced up at your face, searching for any sign of waking, but your expression remained serene, oblivious.

His hand moved again, bolder now, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. His fingers found you, warm and soft, and he began to touch you, his movements careful but insistent. The slickness came quickly, your body responding even in sleep, and he bit his lip to stifle another groan. The sight of you, so vulnerable, so pliant, sent a rush through him, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Leaning forward, he brought his mouth to your exposed nipple, his lips closing around it gently at first, then with a slow, hungry pull. The sensation drew a soft moan from you, a sound that made his heart stutter. You shifted slightly, your body arching just enough to press closer to his touch, but your eyes stayed closed, your mind still submerged in the haze he’d ensured. The moans turned to faint whimpers, sweet and unfiltered, as his fingers worked you with a steady rhythm, coaxing more wetness, more of those sounds that drove him wild.

Heeseung’s breath was ragged now, his lips lingering against your skin as he sucked harder, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. His fingers, slick with your arousal, paused for a moment as he studied your face. No flicker of awareness, no hint of waking. He’d been careful tonight. Knowing you had no plans tomorrow, he’d upped the dosage in your water bottle, just enough to keep you under, to give him this window to indulge. The thought made his pulse quicken, a dark thrill curling in his chest. 

You wouldn’t wake up. 

He shifted his hand, his touch growing bolder, and slowly eased one finger inside you. The warmth, the tightness, made him bite back a groan, his lips faltering against your skin for just a moment before he resumed, sucking harder, his tongue pressing against your nipple with renewed intensity. He thrust his finger slowly in and out, savoring the way your body seemed to pull him in, even in sleep. Your soft, desperate whines grew just a fraction louder, a sound that sent heat pooling in his gut.

Heeseung’s eyes fluttered shut, his world narrowing to the feel of you — the slick heat around his finger, the taste of your skin, the faint tremors of your body responding to him. He moved faster now, his thrusts steady but careful, not wanting to disturb the delicate balance of your slumber. His mouth worked relentlessly, teeth grazing lightly as he sucked, drawing out more of those sweet, unconscious moans that made his head swim.

He was lost in it, in you, in the forbidden rush of having you like this.

He eased another finger inside you, stretching you slightly, and the slick warmth pulled a shudder from him. He thrust slowly, his fingers curling just enough to coax more of those sweet, unconscious moans from your lips. They came louder now, still soft but unmistakably desperate, each sound like a spark to the fire building in his chest. 

His hips twitched, thrusting into the empty air, mirroring the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The motion was involuntary, driven by the ache pooling in his core, the need that gripped him tighter with every moan you let slip. 

Your body trembled beneath Heeseung’s touch, the rhythm of his fingers relentless as your moans grew sharper, more desperate. Then, in a breathless, broken sound, you moaned his name — Heeseung — soft but unmistakable, spilling from your lips as your body clenched around his fingers, your release coating them in a rush of warmth. The sound hit him like a shockwave, his mouth detaching from your nipple with a wet, obscene pop. Drool glistened on his chin, trailing down as he stared up at your face, his breath catching.

You were still asleep, your expression serene, lips parted slightly, utterly unaware of the name you’d just sighed or the way your body had shuddered through your climax. His name. In your sleep. As you came on his fingers. The realization sent a dark thrill through him, twisting something deep in his chest. 

Oh fuck.

A grin spread across his face, slow and dangerous, his eyes glinting with something feral, unhinged. You knew, somewhere in the haze of your subconscious, that it was him. The thought made his blood burn. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to question it. His fingers moved again, pushing deeper, stretching you further. Your body reacted instantly, arching off the bed, your thighs clenching together as if to trap his hand. He didn’t care. He forced them apart, his gaze fixed on your face, drinking in every twitch, every flutter of your lashes.

His other hand fumbled at his waistband, yanking it down to free himself. His cock was painfully hard, already leaking, and he wrapped his fingers around it, stroking in time with the thrusts inside you. 

A breathless whimper escaped your lips, louder than before, and it sent a jolt through him.

He slowed his thrusts immediately, his fingers pausing before moving deeper, curling inside you, pressing against the spot that made your breath hitch. Your legs, once tense, flopped limply against the mattress, parting wider, giving him full access. The sight of you so open, so vulnerable, made his chest tighten. He could move his wrist freely now, his fingers working you with slow, deep strokes, coaxing more of those breathless moans from your lips.

Heeseung leaned forward, his gaze never leaving your face as he brought his mouth back to your nipple, latching on softly at first, his tongue swirling gently before he sucked harder. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, biting just enough to draw a reaction, then tugging lightly, testing how much you could take. Your body arched again, a low whine spilling from your throat as your walls clenched around his fingers, your second release shuddering through you.

The pulse of your climax around his fingers sent a shiver through Heeseung, his lips lingering on your nipple, sucking softly as your body trembled beneath him. The intensity of it made his head spin, his own hand faltering on his cock as he fought to stay present, to savor every second. Slowly, he pressed his fingers deeper, letting you clench around him, before he eased them out, his eyes fixed on the slick coating his skin. The sight of it, glistening in the dim light, made his breath catch, a dark delight curling in his chest.

He brought his fingers to his mouth, sliding them past his lips, and his eyes rolled back as he moaned low, the taste of you flooding his senses. It was sweet, heady, better than he’d imagined, and he licked every bit of it off, his tongue chasing the remnants. When he pulled his fingers out, they were clean, and he exhaled heavily, his breath shaky, his body thrumming with need.

He couldn’t resist. His hand dipped back to you, fingers slipping inside again, coating themselves in your wetness, gathering as much as he could before pulling out, his hand once again slick and shining. He wrapped it around his cock, the warmth and slipperiness driving a groan from his throat as he began to stroke himself, his gaze locked on your sleeping form. Your parted lips, the faint flush on your cheeks, the exposed curve of your breast — it was all too much. 

The tension coiled tight in his core, and with a choked, “Fuuuuuuuuck…” he came hard, his release spilling in thick spurts, some landing on your face. He shuddered, his breath heavy and uneven, as he rode out the high, his hand slowing but still gripping himself. For a moment, he just stared, the sight of you marked by him sending a twisted thrill through his veins.

Carefully, he tucked himself back into his sweatpants as if afraid to disturb the scene. He slipped into your bathroom, grabbing a damp cloth from the sink, and returned to your side. With gentle care, he wiped the evidence from your face, his touch soft against your skin, then with careful hands, he straightened your shirt, pulling it back down to cover you, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He then adjusted the blanket that had slipped to the end of the bed, pulling it back up to your shoulders. The small, domestic motion looked almost gentle, almost caring.

He stood there a few more seconds, taking in the stillness of the room, the steady rhythm of your breathing. Then he stepped back, moving silently toward the door. The latch clicked softly behind him as he slipped out.

The apartment was quiet again—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the clock—ordinary sounds that made the moment feel unreal. Heeseung crossed the hall to his own room and shut the door. The lock turned with a tight snap.

At his desk, he exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small digital recorder, its indicator light blinking. For a moment he just looked at it, then he pressed a button, the light fading to dark, and placed it carefully on the desk beside his keyboard.

The computer’s glow filled the room as he sat down, the chair creaking quietly under his weight. His hand hovered over the mouse, eyes fixed on the screen. Folders lined the display—each one neatly labeled. He clicked open the newest one and watched the progress bar crawl across the screen. When it finished, he leaned back, staring at the list of files that bore your name.

A small, satisfied breath slipped from his lips, his fingers twitching with anticipation as he scrolled through the older files.He selected one from a few weeks ago, the date pulling a faint memory of that night to the surface. The audio began, soft at first, then your voice — a low, breathy moan, caught in the haze of sleep. His head tilted back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as the sound washed over him, pulling him back to that moment. Your whimpers, the faint rustle of sheets, the way you’d sighed so sweetly, unaware of his presence, his touch. 

He leaned further back, the chair creaking under his weight, his hand moving instinctively to palm himself through the fabric. Each sound from the recording — every hitch in your breath, every soft whine — felt like it was pulling him under, drowning him in the memory of you. He let the audio play, his fingers tightening slightly as he listened, his mind painting vivid images of your sleeping form, the way your body had responded to him, the way you’d been his without ever knowing.

His eyes fluttered open briefly, glancing down, and he cursed under his breath, low and rough, at the sight of himself, fully hard again, straining against his sweatpants. 

His hand slipped beneath the waistband, fingers wrapping around his cock, already slick with precum. A sharp hiss escaped him as he touched himself, the sensitivity making his breath catch. He began to stroke, slow at first, his grip tight, the wet sounds of his movements blending with your moans in his ears. The headphones amplified every hitch in your breath, every soft whine, and he let himself sink into the fantasy of finally sinking into your pussy, feeling you clench around him, warm and tight, just as you had around his fingers. The idea sent a jolt through him, his strokes quickening, his hips twitching upward into his hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice barely audible, his head tilting back as his eyes squeezed shut. The audio looped in his ears, your voice a siren’s call, and he imagined you beneath him, awake or not, giving yourself to him completely. 

Heeseung’s head tilted further back, a soft whine slipping from his lips as he teased himself, slowing his strokes to a torturous pace. His fingers dragged along his length, deliberate and agonizing, drawing out the sensation until his eyes rolled back, a shudder rippling through him. Your name fell from his lips in a hushed whisper, as if saying it could summon you into the room. The audio in his headphones — your moans, your breathless sighs — looped relentlessly, each sound tightening the coil of need in his core.

His fingers twitched, hovering over the mouse, then clutching it tightly, as if anchoring himself to something solid. But his mind was elsewhere, lost in the memory of your body under his hands, the way you’d arched into his touch, unaware and perfect. 

Your moans echoed through the headphones, each one stoking the fire in his chest, pushing him closer to the edge. His body tensed, muscles coiling tight, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as he came, his release spilling over his hand, his body shuddering with the intensity. He slumped back in the chair, his chest heaving as he took deep, ragged breaths, trying to steady himself. 

Reaching for a handful of tissues from the table, he wiped the cum from his hand, his movements slow, almost mechanical, as he came down from the high.

He tugged the headphones off, your moans cutting off abruptly, leaving the room in near silence, save for the faint hum of the computer. With a tired flick of his wrist, he powered it down, the screen fading to black. He sat there for a moment, staring at the reflection of his dimly lit room in the blank monitor. Then, with a quiet exhale, he pushed himself up, his legs unsteady. He crossed to his bed and let himself fall back onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly beneath him.

For a while, he just stared at the ceiling. The apartment felt too quiet now; every tick of the clock in the kitchen felt like a shout. Heeseung turned onto his side, eyes unfocused, watching the strip of light shift along the wall.

Sleep didn’t come easily. His body was still, but his mind kept circling back to the same thought: you, asleep in the next room, unaware of how closely your lives were starting to overlap. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly—just a strange, restless need to keep things the way they were.

He shut his eyes finally, exhaling a slow breath that blurred into the dark. Tomorrow would look the same as every other day: breakfast, classes, the small talk you’d exchange in passing. You’d smile, and he’d smile back. Nothing out of place.

By the time his breathing evened out, the clock read a little past four. The apartment, once again, was still.

The next morning, you woke up later than usual. The sun had already climbed high, slipping through the blinds in soft, golden lines that stretched across the floor. You blinked blearily at the clock on your nightstand — almost one. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept that long.

Your body felt heavy, but your mind was oddly clear. The sleep had been deep, dreamless, and a little too perfect. You stretched lazily before sitting up, rubbing your eyes. Something about the air felt different, though. Still. Too still.

Pushing your bedroom door open, you were greeted by silence.

“Heeseung?” you called softly, half-expecting him to answer from behind his usual closed door. 

Nothing.

You tried again, louder this time. “Heeseung, you up?”

No reply.

That wasn’t too unusual; he wasn’t a morning person. But even then, you usually heard something—the faint creak of his chair, the hum of his computer fans, the soft clatter of him rummaging through the kitchen. Today, there was nothing.

The apartment felt… hollow.

You moved around quietly, fixing a simple breakfast and eating at the counter while the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. You scrolled through your phone, checking messages, half-expecting one from him. There were none.

After breakfast, you curled up on the couch and played an episode of an anime you’d been meaning to finish. The familiar voices and bright colors helped fill the emptiness, but you kept glancing toward the hallway between episodes, waiting for his door to open. 

It didn’t.

By noon, you decided to get ready and head out to run some errands — groceries, maybe the bookstore. Something normal. You stood in front of your closet, already planning your outfit.

You reached for a specific shirt — the one you’d worn just last week — but your hand hit an empty hanger. You frowned.

Weird. You could’ve sworn you’d hung it there. You searched the other hangers, then the drawers, then the laundry basket. Nothing.

You started pulling clothes out one by one, tossing them onto the bed as your irritation grew. “Where the hell—” You stopped mid-sentence, staring at the half-emptied closet. No sign of it.

It couldn’t have just vanished.

Maybe you’d misplaced it? Maybe it had fallen somewhere, or maybe you’d loaned it out and forgotten? But even as you tried to reason it out, the explanation didn’t sit right. You exhaled sharply, stepping over the pile of clothes. “Heeseung might’ve seen it,” you muttered to yourself. 

You crossed the hallway and stopped in front of his room. The door was closed, same as always. You knocked once.

“Heeseung? You in there?”

Silence.

You waited a few seconds, then tried again, louder this time. “Heeseung?”

Still nothing.

You hesitated before reaching for the handle, expecting resistance. But it turned easily. Oh?

You peeked your head in first, cautious. “Heeseung? Hello?”

No one.

The room was empty, but it didn’t look like he’d been gone long. The curtains were still drawn, the chair pushed slightly away from the desk, the bed unmade with the blanket twisted halfway off. His headset sat on the desk beside his keyboard.

You stepped inside, frowning. He didn’t have work today— it wasn’t like him to go anywhere this early. Maybe he’d stepped out for groceries? Coffee? Your eyes drifted over his desk, to the shelves above it lined with his figurine collection. One caught your attention — a new one you hadn’t seen before. You stepped closer to take a look. As you leaned in, your hand brushed against his mouse, and the computer screen flickered to life.

“Oh—he left it on,” you murmured, surprised. The glow from the monitor bathed the desk in cold light. You reached for the keyboard to put it to sleep before he came back and noticed.

But then you froze.

There, in the upper right corner of the screen, sat a folder. Your gaze snagged on the name before you could look away.

It was your name.

You blinked, sure you were imagining it. But there it was—clear, typed neatly in the list of files on his desktop. No last name, no embellishment. Just you.

Your fingers hovered above the mouse. For a moment, you considered just turning the monitor off, pretending you hadn’t seen anything. Pretending everything was still normal.

But curiosity—and something sharper, colder—tightened inside you.

You swallowed hard.

And then your hand started to move.

The cursor slid across the screen, the small arrow trembling faintly as if your own unease had travelled down through your hand.

You double-clicked.

The folder opened.

Inside, another set of folders appeared—each one neatly dated, stacked in order from months ago to last night. Every one of them had your name.

You felt your stomach twist.

At first you thought it might be screenshots, maybe something from a game. But when you scrolled down, the icons were all the same shape, same size: small audio waveforms. Dozens of them.

You clicked on one before you could stop yourself.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the audio file loaded, the cursor hovering over the play button for a split second before you clicked. At first, there was nothing—just silence. You frowned, leaning closer to the screen, wondering if the file was corrupted or empty. Your fingers brushed the headphones on the desk, and without thinking, you unplugged them.

The sound hit you like a shockwave.

Your own voice spilled from the speakers, a low moan followed by a faint whimper. The noises were intimate, vulnerable, sounds you didn’t recognize as your own at first, but the realization crashed over you like ice water. Your breath caught, your hand freezing over the mouse as the audio continued: soft gasps, a quiet whine, the rustle of fabric. It was you but in a context that made your stomach lurch.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, as the sounds played on, each one more damning than the last. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, and then—your name, whispered in Heeseung’s voice, barely audible but unmistakable. The room spun, the glow of the screen blurring as your mind raced to make sense of it. When had this happened? How? You didn’t remember this, didn’t remember any of this.

Your hand shot to the keyboard, fumbling to pause the audio, but your fingers trembled, and the sounds kept playing, filling the room with the echo of your own voice, trapped in some moment you couldn’t recall. The dates on the files flashed in your mind—months ago, weeks ago, last night. 

Your hands flew to your head, fingers clutching at your hair as confusion and horror twisted through you like a vice. The sounds of your own moans, raw and unguarded, continued to spill from the speakers, each one a violation you couldn’t comprehend. You had never done this openly, never given Heeseung—or anyone—access to such intimate moments. How had he gotten these? How? For how long had he been collecting them? 

Your breath came in short, panicked gasps, your heart hammering as you fumbled again for the keyboard, desperate to stop the audio. Your fingers slipped, hitting the wrong key, and the volume spiked for a moment, your own voice echoing louder, mocking you. Nausea churned in your stomach, and you finally managed to slam the spacebar, silencing the room. 

But the quiet was worse — thick and heavy, pressing on your ears until you could hear your own heartbeat.

Then a sudden sound split the silence.

The sharp crack of a door slamming.

You spun around so fast the chair scraped against the floor. Heeseung was standing in the doorway. His hair was mussed, his clothes wrinkled like he’d just come in from outside. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you. His eyes were dark and wide, the expression on his face flickering between shock and something else you couldn’t name.

Then, slowly, he reached behind him and turned the lock. The click echoed in the stillness of the room. 

“What are you doing in here?” His voice was low, even, but the calmness in it made your stomach twist. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You opened your mouth, words tripping over themselves. “I— I was just— your door wasn’t locked, and I—”

“You shouldn’t have snooped.” The tone sharpened suddenly, cutting through your attempt at an explanation. His expression shifted — not angry in the usual way, but off, like a smile forced onto the wrong face. “You don’t just go into someone’s room. You know that, right?”

“Heeseung—” you started, stepping back, bumping into the desk.

“I trusted you,” he said quietly. “And this is what you do?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You turned slightly, pointing toward the computer. “Trusted me? You were recording me!” The words burst out before you could stop them. “You— You had files of me, Heeseung! My voice, my—”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, eerie smile crept across his face. It wasn’t amusement exactly — more like satisfaction, like someone who’d stopped pretending. 

“You shouldn’t have looked,” he said simply.

You felt the air leave your lungs. “What— what is wrong with you?”

Heeseung tilted his head, that faint smile still there. “I could ask you the same thing,” he murmured. “Why can’t you ever just leave things the way they are?”

Something in you snapped.

“Leave things the way they are?” Your voice cracked, rising before you could stop it. “You’ve been spying on me! Do you even hear yourself? You think this is normal? You think recording me—watching me—is okay?” The words came fast, tumbling out over one another, the fear in your chest burning into anger. “You’re insane, Heeseung! Do you have any idea how sick this is?”

For a moment he just stared at you, that same unreadable expression frozen in place. Then he let out a quiet, tired sigh.

“Guess the jig’s up…” he said softly, setting his bag down on the floor beside the door.

You blinked, caught off guard by how calm he sounded.

He slipped off his jacket slowly, folding it like nothing about this was strange. “You weren’t supposed to find that,” he continued, his tone almost conversational now. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You—what?”

Heeseung shrugged lightly, as though this were just another small inconvenience. “I should’ve locked the folder. I usually do.” He glanced at you then, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re a lot nosier than I thought.”

You stared at him, unable to form words. The calmness, the way he spoke as if this was a minor mistake—it was more unsettling than if he’d yelled.

Heeseung’s smile snapped like a brittle thing. For a second he just stood there, face slack, and then something in him broke.

Without warning he lunged.

You barely had time to react. Instinct shoved you into motion — a shout ripped from your throat as you twisted, jerking away from his grasp. Your hand knocked the edge of the desk; papers fluttered to the floor. He swore, a rough, animal sound, and reached again, fingers clawing for you.

Adrenaline turned everything bright and loud. You shoved him hard across the chest. He stumbled, face contorted with surprise and anger, and reached for you faster this time. Your breath came hot and raw as you dodged him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Stop fighting me!” he snapped, voice tight and strangled.

“You’re insane!” you spat, adrenaline sharpening every word. “You think I’m just going to let you—let you do this?”

Heeseung’s face went hard, eyes glassy with something else — frustration, need, something you didn’t want to name. He advanced again, faster this time. “Come on, just be still,” he hissed, every syllable a command. “Just be good, okay? You don’t have to make this hard.”

Well, fuck that!

You weren’t going to be still. Not after finding the files, not after every lie and late-night listen. Your hands scrabbled at whatever was in reach.

“Get the fuck away from me you creep!” you screamed, shoving a textbook at his chest. It barely slowed him down. Heeseung was stronger, faster, and as you twisted to dodge him, his hand caught your arm, yanking you off balance. You stumbled, and in a blur of motion, you hit the floor, the breath knocked out of you. Before you could scramble up, he was on you, pinning you down, his hands like iron around your wrists.

You thrashed, kicking wildly, but his weight held you in place. His face hovered inches above yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Why can’t you just—” His hand suddenly cracked across your face, the sharp sting of the slap stealing your breath. Your head snapped to the side, shock and pain blooming in your cheek as you gasped. His fingers found your throat, gripping just tight enough to make your pulse pound against his hold. “You’re being bad,” he hissed, his voice low, venomous. “You think you can just ruin everything just like that? No.. I think I need to teach you a lesson.”

Your heart raced, panic surging as you struggled beneath him, but he was too strong. With a rough yank, he pulled you to your feet, your wrists still trapped in his grip, and threw you onto the bed. The mattress creaked under your weight, and before you could roll away, he was on you again, moving with a speed that left you dizzy. You heard a metallic clink, and then—cold steel snapped around your wrists. Handcuffs? Your eyes widened in disbelief as you tugged against them, the metal biting into your skin, secured to the bedframe. He had handcuffs attached to his bed? The realization hit you like a punch, your mind reeling with shock and terror.

“Heeseung, what the fuck?” you screamed, pulling harder against the cuffs, but they held firm. Your voice trembled, caught between rage and fear, as you twisted beneath him. He didn’t answer, his expression hard, focused, as he grabbed the waistband of your pants and yanked them down in one swift motion. The air hit your skin, and before you could react, his hand came down hard on your ass, the sharp crack of the slap echoing in the room. Pain seared through you, and you cried out, your body arching instinctively, your back bowing as you gasped.

“Keep moving,” he taunted, his voice dripping with a manic edge as he struck you again, harder this time. “It just makes this better.” His hand lingered after each hit, the heat of his palm searing against your reddened skin. You thrashed, tears burning in your eyes, but the cuffs held you firm, and his strength was overwhelming. By the time he stopped, your ass was raw, throbbing with pain, and tears streamed down your face, your breaths coming in broken sobs.

Without warning, he gripped your hips and flipped you onto your back, the cuffs twisting your arms uncomfortably as you landed. You gasped, still crying, as he forced your legs apart with a rough tug, his hands unyielding. He peeled off his shirt, tossing it aside, and unzipped his pants halfway, the sound of the zipper loud in the tense silence. His eyes raked over you, empty and cold, yet burning with something feverish. “Finally… the real deal…” he muttered, his voice low and dazed, like he was speaking to himself.

“Please, Heeseung,” you begged, your voice trembling as tears spilled down your cheeks. “Stop. Just—just talk to me. We can figure this out, please!” Your words were desperate, grasping for any shred of the person you thought you’d known.

He tilted his head, a faint, mocking smile curling his lips. “Talk? No, no, honey,” he murmured, his tone almost soothing, but laced with something dark and final. “It’s time for action…” His hands moved to your shirt, yanking it up to expose your breasts. He grabbed them roughly, his fingers digging in before he delivered a sharp slap, the sting making you cry out. 

He surged forward, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking hard with a hunger that made your breath hitch, tears streaming faster as you pulled uselessly against the cuffs. His tongue swirled, his teeth grazing, and his grip on your other breast tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pressed himself closer, his hardening bulge grinding against you through his half-unzipped pants. The friction was rhythmic, each movement sending a jolt through your body that you fought to ignore. Tears streamed down your cheeks, but you bit your lip, swallowing your sobs, forcing yourself into silence. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you.

His lips stilled for a moment, his breath hot against your skin as he pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing. The absence of your sounds, your refusal to give him what he craved, made something shift in his expression—something darker, more insistent. “No, no,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. “I want to hear you.” His tone was sharp, demanding, as if your silence was a personal betrayal.

His mouth returned to your nipple, sucking harder, his teeth biting just enough to sting, trying to coax a sound from you. His other hand slid down, gripping your hip to pull you closer, amplifying the pressure of his grinding. “Come on, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice dripping with frustration. “Let me hear you. You know you want this.”

You clenched your jaw, your body trembling from the effort to stay quiet, to deny him the moans he was so desperate to pull from you.

But Heeseung’s eyes burned with a relentless hunger. He wasn’t going to let you win this.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, dripping with challenge. “You’re gonna give me what I want.” He shifted, his weight pinning you harder against the bed, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing, taunting. His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading them wider, digging into your flesh. “Let’s see how long you can hold out,” he muttered, his lips curling into a cruel smirk.

His fingers found you, and he didn’t hesitate, plunging two inside with a rough thrust. You gasped, the sound escaping before you could stop it, and his eyes lit up, triumphant. “There it is,” he purred, his voice dark and mocking as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made your body betray you. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low growl. “Moan for me. Let me hear how much you want this.”

You tried to fight it, biting your lip until it hurt, but he was merciless. His free hand slid up, grabbing your breast, squeezing hard before delivering a sharp slap that made you cry out, a desperate, broken moan spilling from your throat. Tears pricked your eyes, but your body was no longer yours to control—it arched into his touch, chasing the sensations despite your mind screaming to resist. He added a third finger, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit with ruthless precision, and you whined, high and needy, the sound echoing in the room.

Heeseung’s grin was feral, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he leaned back to watch you unravel. “That’s my girl.” 

With a sudden, rough motion, he grabbed the waistband of your panties and ripped them off, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound that made you flinch. The cool air hit your exposed pussy, and you gasped, the vulnerability sending a wave of shame through you. Heeseung’s eyes locked onto you, drinking in the sight with a hunger that made your stomach twist. “Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, as he spread your legs wider, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

He’d studied you, memorized you, those late nights spent in the shadows of your room giving him a map of every sensitive spot, every reaction. Now, he wielded that knowledge like a weapon. His fingers thrusted into you with a mean rhythm, curling just right to hit that spot that made your hips buck and a broken whine tear from your throat. “Don’t hold back now,” he taunted, his tone sharp and cruel. “I know you can’t… So why don't you just scream for me, baby. Let me hear it all.”

Your body trembled, betrayed by the slick heat pooling between your legs, whimpers spilling out despite your efforts to hold them back. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you, such a mess,” he sneered, his words cutting sharp. “Crying and whining, and for what? My fingers? You’re so fucking desperate.”

He could feel the way you clenched around his fingers, the way your breaths turned shallow and desperate, and he smirked, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Not yet,” he growled, slowing his thrusts just as you neared the brink, denying you the release you craved. “You don’t get to cum until I say so.”

Your whimpers turned into a choked sob, your body trembling with the agony of being so close, only to be pulled back. “Please,” you gasped, the word slipping out before you could stop it, your pride crumbling under the overwhelming need. Heeseung’s grin widened, dark and wicked, as he leaned down, his breath hot against your skin. “Begging already?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

Before you could respond, he surged forward, his mouth attacking your pussy, lips closed around your clit, sucking hard.

Your thighs clenched around his head, instinctively trying to push him away, but he only growled, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbled against you, his voice thick with lust, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at you like he couldn’t get enough. 

“Please, Heeseung, let me cum,” you begged, your voice breaking, tears streaming down your cheeks as the pleasure became unbearable. The desperation in your voice only spurred him on, his moans vibrating against your clit as he sucked harder, his fingers pushing you right to the edge again. 

But he didn’t make you wait this time. His tongue and fingers working in tandem, driving you higher, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped. You screamed, your body convulsing as you came hard, your thighs tightening around his head, your hips bucking against his mouth. Heeseung moaned against you, lapping up every bit of your release, his eyes fluttering shut as he lost himself in the taste.

Your body trembled, oversensitive and shaking from the intensity of your climax, your scream still echoing in your ears as you gasped for breath. Heeseung’s mouth stayed on you, lapping at your oversensitive clit with no sign of stopping. You wiggled beneath him, your hips jerking as you tried to pull away, the sensation too much, too overwhelming. “Heeseung, please—stop,” you gasped, your voice raw and pleading, your thighs clenching in a futile attempt to close against his head.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, your pleas only spurred him on. He moaned into you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh, his eyes half-lidded and glazed as he buried his face deeper. “Cant stop… need more,” he mumbled, his voice muffled but thick with lust. 

He shifted slightly, one hand leaving your hip to fumble with his pants, yanking them down just enough to free his cock as he wrapped his fingers around it, stroking himself. 

“Heeseung, please,” you begged, your voice raw, tears streaming down your face. “It’s too much—stop!”

“Shut up,” he snapped, his voice low, his lips barely lifting from your skin. “You don’t get to tell me to stop.” His tongue pressed harder, circling your clit, his teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out in pain.

“That’s it,” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Keep crying, keep begging. It just makes you wetter, doesn’t it?”

You couldn’t fight it anymore—the pleasure, the pain, the humiliation all crashing together. With a scream that tore from your throat, you came again, your eyes rolling back as your body convulsed, his name spilling from your lips in a broken, unwilling cry. “Heeseung!” The sound was raw, desperate, and it sent a shudder through him, his eyes glinting with triumph.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips glistening, his gaze dark as he sat up, positioning himself between your legs, his pants already halfway down. His cock, hard and leaking, pressed against you, and before you could process it, he sank into you with one deep, forceful thrust. You cried out, the stretch overwhelming, your walls forced to open around him, the intrusion sharp and intense. Tears streamed down your face, your body still reeling from the last climax, now pushed further by the relentless pressure of him filling you completely.

Heeseung whined, his hands gripping your hips as he started moving. “So fucking tight,” he growled, his voice strained, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savored the way you clenched around him.

Your voice was gone, stolen by the overwhelming sensation of Heeseung’s cock thrusting into you, each movement stripping away your ability to form words. All you could manage were choked, broken whines, spilling from your lips as your body trembled beneath him. His thrusts were unpredictable—sometimes rough and fast, slamming into you with a force that made your whole body jolt, the bedframe crashing into the wall; other times slow and deep, dragging out every sensation as he filled you completely, making you feel every inch of him.

“Look at you,” he sneered, his voice dripping with fake kindness. “Can’t even talk, huh? Just a whining little mess, taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into your skin, his eyes locked on where he disappeared inside you. “Fuck, your pussy’s so greedy for me.. sucking me in like you can’t get enough. You love this, don’t you?”

Tears streamed down your face, but he only laughed, a dark, mocking sound, as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m gonna cum so deep in you,” he muttered, his tone possessive. “Fill you up so good, not a single drop’s gonna leave. No other guy’s ever gonna have you like this. No one else could make you fall apart like I do.”

His thrusts shifted again, rough and punishing, each one pulling a choked whimper from your throat as he drove into you with relentless force. “I’ve craved you for so fucking long,” he confessed, his voice raw, almost unhinged, his eyes wild as they met yours.

“This pussy—shit, it’s mine, always been mine, hasn’t it? Sucking me in like you were made for me...” His words spilled out in a chaotic rush, as he leaned closer, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?” he rambled, his voice low, almost feverish. “All those nights, watching you, touching you, listening to you moan in your sleep—fuck, it drove me crazy, knowing you were right there, so close, so fucking perfect. And now, now I’ve got you, and you’re not going anywhere.” His hand gripped your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t think straight, until you’re screaming my name so loud the whole building knows who you belong to.”

His mouth was hot on your neck, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of marks that burned under his lips. “Fuck, you’re everything to me,” he rambled, his words spilling out in a frenzied, desperate rush, his breath ragged against your skin. “Every single day, every fucking night, I’ve been obsessed, consumed by you—thinking about this, about you under me, taking me so perfectly. You don’t even know how long I’ve waited, how much I’ve needed this, needed you. Shit, you feel so fucking good, so tight, gripping me like you were made for me..”

His free hand slid up from your hip, grabbing your breast, his fingers kneading the soft flesh as his thumb flicked over your nipple, sending a jolt through you. You gasped, your body arching despite your efforts to resist, and he groaned, low and needy, his mouth moving to your chest. “God, these tits,” he muttered, his voice breaking with a whine, his lips barely lifting from your skin. “So fucking perfect, so mine. You have no idea what it does to me.. Walking around, teasing me without even trying, making me lose my mind just watching you.”

His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, each one pulling a choked whimper from your throat as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless. “Heeseung,” spilled from your lips before you could stop it. His eyes widened, a wild glint flashing in them, and he groaned, his control snapping completely. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed repeatedly, his voice strained as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself deep.

He came hard, his release flooding you, hot and overwhelming, his hips twitching as he emptied himself inside you. “Shiiiiit,” he whimpered, his voice breaking into a drawn-out moan, his body shuddering as he gripped your ass cheeks tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force. Drool slipped from his lips, glistening as it dripped onto your tits, his mouth still hovering over your nipple, sucking weakly as he rode out the high. “So fucking good,” he mumbled, his words slurred, almost incoherent, his breath ragged as he pressed himself deeper, ensuring every drop stayed inside you.

Your body was numb, trembling under his weight, the cuffs biting into your wrists as you lay there, tears drying on your cheeks. Heeseung’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and possessive, a faint smirk curling his lips as he saw the state you were in. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with a cruel satisfaction. “All fucked out, just for me. Bet you didn’t even know you could feel this good, huh?”

He shifted slightly, his cock still buried inside you, and leaned down, his tongue flicking over your other nipple, teasing it with slow licks. The sensation made you whimper, your oversensitive body jerking involuntarily. 

“Can’t get enough of you,” he muttered, his voice needy but still laced with that mean edge. “Every inch of you, every sound you make—it’s all mine. You’re gonna remember this, baby, every fucking second of it.” He pulled back slightly, his gaze roaming over your body, taking in the marks he’d left—bruises on your hips, redness on your breasts, the faint bite marks on your neck. His smirk widened, a twisted pride in his eyes as he reached down, brushing his fingers lightly over your clit, making you flinch and whine. “Still so sensitive,” he taunted, his touch gentle to torment you further. “I could do this all day, you know. Keep you here, make you cum again and again until you can’t even think straight, until all you know is me.”

His words sent a fresh wave of dread through you, but your body was too exhausted to fight, your breaths shallow as you lay there, pinned beneath him. 

He leaned down, his face hovering inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. “My perfect girl,” he murmured, his voice low and deceptively soft. It caused your skin to crawl. Then, he closed the distance, his lips pressing against yours in a slow, claiming kiss.

At first, it was gentle, his mouth moving softly, savoring the feel of you. But then he deepened it, his tongue forcing its way past your lips, invading your mouth with a hungry edge. You whimpered, the sound muffled against him, your body tensing as he claimed even this part of you. His hand slid to your jaw, holding you in place, his fingers digging in just enough to keep you still as he explored your mouth, tasting you like he owned every inch.

“Fuck, even your mouth is perfect,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice rough, breaking with a craving. “All of you, every fucking part, it’s all mine.” He deepened the kiss again, his teeth grazing your lower lip, biting just hard enough to make you gasp, your body jerking involuntarily.

Your mind screamed to resist, but your body was too weak, too overwhelmed, and the cuffs held you fast. His kiss swallowed your protests, claiming you in a way that felt as invasive as everything else he’d done. He pulled back slightly, just enough to let you catch a ragged breath, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he watched you tremble beneath him. “That’s it,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips, his voice dripping with possession. “Even your kisses belong to me now.”

a/n: oh no hes hot...

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It starts with your name being called last.

You’re the only transfer student admitted into Holloway’s competitive law program this semester—a fact that’s earned you a dozen side-eyes before you even sit down in Advanced Trial Strategy, the most competitive class on campus.

You walk in ten minutes early, arms full of color-coded binders, bright-orange post-its fluttering like warning signs. Your blazer’s slightly oversized, your hair’s still half-curled from the wind outside, and your lips are glossed pink.

You are sunshine, disorder, and ambition in heels.

And the only seat left when you enter… is next to him.

Park Jongseong.

Or, as everyone in this building knows him: Jay.

Word around campus is he doesn’t speak unless he has to. Cold. Distant. The best student Holloway’s had in five years. You’ve never met him, but your best friend Yunjin made a whole bingo sheet on your first night in the dorm titled:

“Ways Jay Will Silently Judge You.”

You take the seat next to him.

“Hi!” you chirp, smiling as you drop your bag with a thud. “Sorry, is this okay?”

He doesn’t look up.

He just nods once and continues typing.

Rude.

But you’ll win him over. You always do.

⸻

Professor Song doesn’t do warm-up lectures. He walks in and says, “You two. Argue.”

He points straight at you. Then at Jay.

“Prosecution. Defense. Five minutes. Go.”

You blink.

Jay closes his laptop with the calm of someone about to commit murder.

You scramble for your notes. “Wait—what’s the—what’s the case?”

“No case,” Professor Song says. “You invent it. You argue it. I want to see how your minds work under pressure. Let’s go.”

Jay steps forward. So do you.

He speaks first.

Cold. Precise. Voice like steel on glass. He lays out a fictional embezzlement charge, invents a company on the spot, constructs motive, opportunity, forensic trail—all in two minutes.

You stare at him, stunned.

Then you smile.

You don’t match his logic—you dismantle it.

Your voice rises with every sentence, full of conviction. You talk about social dynamics, gender disparity in finance firms, the psychological effects of chronic workplace isolation. You shift the narrative. Twist it emotionally.

Jay frowns.

Just slightly. Like he didn’t expect you to hold your ground.

And that’s the moment it begins.

The rivalry.

⸻

Later That Day — Debate Club HQ

You drop into a beanbag next to Yunjin, heart still racing.

“You dueled Jay Park?” she gasps, almost dropping her coffee.

“Technically, yes. Also technically, I think he hates me.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “Your arc begins.”

You groan.

Across the room, Heeseung, the Debate Club President, overhears. He walks over, flipping his clipboard casually.

“I saw it,” he says, grinning. “You actually rattled him.”

“I what now?”

“You rattled Jay. He adjusted his tie five times after class. That’s panic in Jay-speak.”

“Fantastic,” you mutter. “Now he’ll really hate me.”

“Or,” Heeseung says with a smirk, “he’ll have no choice but to start watching you.”

⸻

Jay’s POV — That Night

His notes are organized.

His calendar is strict.

His routine is sacred.

So why has he rewritten the same paragraph of his brief five times tonight?

Jay exhales, pushes back from his desk, and shuts his eyes.

You were… unstructured. Illogical.

You argued like feeling was fact.

But you held the room.

You tilted the scales. You made people feel something.

It was… irritating.

And worse?

He can still hear your voice in his head.

⸻

A Week Later — Debate Club Practice

Heeseung pairs you and Jay again.

Yunjin groans. “He’s doing this on purpose.”

You smile, cracking your knuckles. “Let’s ruin his GPA.”

Jay raises one eyebrow. “You’d have to get close enough.”

“You mean like this?” You slide your chair uncomfortably close to him. He stiffens.

“Unprofessional,” he mutters.

“Effective,” you grin.

Across the room, Eunchae, the first-year wildcard, blurts: “Wait, are they flirting or plotting murder?”

Everyone laughs.

Jay flushes.

You wink at Eunchae. “Why not both?”

⸻

“You’re not here to make friends,” Professor Song says to Jay, eyes unreadable.

Jay stays silent.

“But she is… challenging you.”

“She’s chaotic.”

“She’s not scared of you.”

Jay doesn’t respond.

Professor Song leans back in his chair. “Good. You need someone who doesn’t fall in line. Watch her. See what she teaches you.”

Jay clenches his jaw.

He already is.

__________

The list is posted on the Debate Club bulletin board before 9 a.m. sharp. You’re already there, coffee in hand, windblown hair half tucked behind your ear as you scroll through your phone with one hand and balance your breakfast sandwich with the other.

Jay arrives without a word. You only know because the energy shifts. The hallway goes still.

You glance over. He’s wearing black slacks, a gray turtleneck, a coat draped cleanly over one arm. His expression doesn’t change when he sees the list. But he does read it twice.

You follow his gaze.

Mock Trial Regional: Team A

Lead Counsel: Park Jongseong

Co-Counsel: [Your Name]

You nearly choke on your sandwich.

“What?” you blurt, wiping your hands on your sleeve. “There has to be a mistake.”

Jay says nothing.

You turn. “There has to be a mistake.”

Still nothing.

“Jay,” you say sharply.

He finally looks at you.

“They put us together,” you hiss.

“I can read,” he replies, voice flat. “You might try it.”

You blink. “Are you—did you just sass me?”

He walks away.

You stand frozen for a second before chasing after him down the corridor.

“Okay, look,” you say, keeping pace beside him. “I know you think I’m annoying—”

“I don’t think you’re annoying,” he says without looking at you.

You blink.

“I know you’re annoying.”

You gasp.

He cuts you a glance—barely—but there’s the ghost of a smirk in his eyes.

You stare at him, stunned. And for the first time, you wonder:

Is Jay Park… capable of joking?

You shake it off.

“No way I’m doing regionals with someone who doesn’t even make eye contact,” you mutter.

“Then you’ll forfeit.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

His pace doesn’t change. “You’ll compete.”

“You think so?”

“You want to win,” he says. “You’re not the type to walk away from a challenge.”

You hate that he’s right.

You hate more that he knows it.

⸻

Practice is a disaster.

You’re loud. He’s precise. You improvise. He scripts everything down to the comma. By the end of the session, you’ve snapped at each other three times, and Heeseung—your team captain—is rubbing his temples like he’s aged ten years in an hour.

“Again,” Heeseung says. “But this time, try to act like you’re on the same team.”

You sigh and start reading the cross-exam questions, pacing the room with restless energy.

Jay sits straight-backed, flipping through notes, not even glancing at you.

“Objection,” he says halfway through.

“Excuse me?”

He looks up. “Leading the witness.”

“This is a mock trial, Park. The witness is literally Chaewon from Econ in a wig!”

Chaewon, who’s roleplaying the key witness, lifts a hand. “Yeah, can we chill? I’m missing lunch for this.”

Jay exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to make the argument watertight.”

“Well, maybe loosen the screws first.”

Heeseung stands. “Okay! That’s it for today.”

“But we just started,” you protest.

“Exactly. And I’d like to keep my hearing intact,” he says, shooting you both a look.

As people begin packing up, Sunghoon walks in with two iced coffees and zero context.

He stops. “Did I miss a trial or a divorce hearing?”

“Both,” Heeseung mutters. “They’re co-counsels for Regionals.”

Sunghoon grins. “Oh. So this is the end of the world.”

You groan and drop into a chair. Jay doesn’t respond. He just begins rearranging his notes with surgical calm.

Sunghoon leans down beside him. “So how’s she doing?”

Jay doesn’t look up. “Loud.”

“Anything else?”

Jay pauses. “…Unpredictable.”

“Not what I asked.”

Jay looks at him then, sharp. “She’s good.”

Sunghoon blinks. That’s the most praise he’s heard from Jay in years.

“Scary good,” Jay adds, more quietly. Sunghoon grins wider.

You don’t hear any of this. You’re busy bickering with Yunjin about who gets the last of her M&Ms, still frustrated from how the session went. But Jay glances up at the sound of your laugh. And he doesn’t look away.

⸻

That night, you’re back at the shared study lounge in the dorms. You’re slouched on a beanbag, surrounded by case law printouts, pink highlighters, a pack of sour candy, and a half-dead laptop. You’re talking out loud to yourself as you write, bouncing arguments off your own echo like a courtroom in your head.

Jay finds you by accident. He pauses in the doorway. He was headed to the law library, but the sound of your voice made him stop.

You’re talking to the ceiling: “Okay, but what if we flip the whole approach? What if we use the defense’s timeline against them—wait—wait, no, that’s stupid, shut up—”

He watches you for another beat. And then, quietly, he pulls out his phone and starts recording the audio. Just a few seconds. Just enough to remember the rhythm of your argument. He won’t use it. He won’t show anyone. He just… wants to study you. Understand you. Maybe… hear your voice again when he’s alone.

⸻

A few days later, the two of you are summoned to Professor Song’s office. You walk in first, dressed in your usual chaotic professionalism—red blazer, earrings that don’t quite match, a single pen stuck behind your ear. Jay follows, hair slicked back, tie flawless.

“Sit,” Song says.

You do. Jay doesn’t look at you, but he does glance once—just once—at your fingers. You’re drumming them lightly on your knee.

“I’ve been watching your progress,” Song says. “Your styles clash.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand.

“Clashing is not bad,” he continues. “But only if it sharpens you. Does she sharpen you, Park?”

Jay is silent for a long moment. Then: “Yes. You turn your head, stunned.

Professor Song nods. “Then let her.”

You blink. “What about me?”

Song looks at you. “Stop trying to get him to laugh. Get him to think. That’s your job.”

You sit back, oddly shaken. Jay… glances at you. Just a flick of his gaze. And for the first time, something shifts. You don’t say a word. But you’re thinking. So is he.

_________

The university van smells like burnt coffee and wet umbrellas.

You’re twenty minutes into the drive to the Regional Prep Camp, legs curled up under you, earbuds in, head against the cold window. The sky outside is the color of damp paper, and traffic is already backed up past the freeway loop.

Jay’s sitting beside you. Naturally.

He requested the front row—some obsessive need to be near the coach. But the van was full by the time you arrived, and the only empty seat was next to him. You plopped down without hesitation, humming something tuneless under your breath as you adjusted the hem of your skirt and pulled out a bag of gummy bears.

He hasn’t said a word to you since. Which is… fine. You’re used to that.

But the silence between you now is less… cold, more coiled. Not quite hostile, but not easy either. Like you’re both waiting to see which one of you will break the stillness first. You stretch and yawn dramatically.

“Are we almost there?”

Jay doesn’t look up from the law brief he’s annotating. You sigh louder. “It feels like we’ve been in here for five years.”

“Fifty-two minutes,” he replies without inflection.

You glance at him. “Wow. You timed it?”

“I have a watch.” “You really need to learn how to lie for the sake of comedy.”

“I don’t.” You open your gummy bears. The crinkling plastic fills the silence. Then—

“Want one?” you offer, holding the bag toward him.

He finally looks at you. “They’re red.”

You blink. “Yeah? They’re the best ones.”

He hesitates. Then, without looking directly at you, he takes one.

You pretend not to notice the way his fingers brush yours.

⸻

The prep camp is hosted at an off-season resort on the outskirts of town. Big conference halls. Empty dining rooms. One vending machine with three types of stale chips. Your debate team pours into the lobby, lugging duffel bags and garment bags, everyone talking over each other.

You and Jay hang back.

He’s scrolling through the itinerary on his phone. You’re trying to balance your suitcase on one wheel and kicking it every few steps.

“This place is cute,” you say. “In a haunted kind of way.”

Jay hums noncommittally.

“Okay, Wednesday is strategy drills, Thursday’s cross-exam mock-up, and Friday is… oh. Great.”

“What?” you say.

“Paired room check-ins.”

You blink. “With who?”

He turns his phone so you can see.

Room 204: Park Jongseong / [Your Name]

You stare at the screen for a long beat.

Then: “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Jay already looks like he has a migraine.

“There are forty people here,” you say, panicking. “Why would they do this?”

He shrugs. “Maybe they think it’ll build trust.”

“Oh sure. Trust falls and sharing toothpaste. Classic team bonding.”

He glances at you. “You snore?”

You gape. “Do you?”

“I don’t sleep enough to snore.”

“Of course you don’t.”

⸻

The room is small.

Two twin beds. One ancient lamp between them. A desk, a chair, a closet that looks like it might collapse if you breathe too hard.

Jay sets down his bag with mechanical precision. He immediately starts unpacking: laptop, chargers, ironed shirts, folders in labeled document sleeves.

You flop face-first onto your bed and groan. “I want to die.”

“Don’t get your hair on the sheets.”

“Park, I swear—”

He doesn’t respond. But you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You sit up and start rummaging through your bag, pulling out your notes, your ridiculous neon stationery, your rainbow pen set, your stress ball shaped like a unicorn.

Jay glances at it. “That’s not regulation.”

“Neither is your soul.”

He ignores you.

⸻

That night, you can’t sleep.

You toss. You turn. You huff into your pillow.

Jay’s perfectly still in the next bed over, eyes shut, hands folded neatly over his stomach like a vampire in a coffin.

You stare at the ceiling.

“I can hear your thoughts,” you whisper.

Silence.

“They’re mean.”

Still silence.

“…You still awake?”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

You grin. “Wanna play ‘Would You Rather’?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

He sighs. But doesn’t stop you.

“Would you rather lose a case in front of the Supreme Court or be stuck in a window seat with someone clipping their nails?”

“…Supreme Court.”

You burst out laughing.

His lips twitch. Just barely.

You prop your head up on one elbow and turn toward him. “Okay, your turn.”

He thinks for a moment.

Then, in that same unreadable tone: “Would you rather go one week without speaking… or one week without winning?”

Your smile fades a little.

You’re quiet.

Jay shifts slightly, eyes still on the ceiling.

“I’d rather speak,” you say at last.

He doesn’t ask why.

But you know he understands.

⸻

The next morning, Heeseung calls for a pre-drill strategy review. You shuffle into the conference hall with sleep in your eyes and half a granola bar in your hand. Jay’s already there—fresh shirt, perfect hair, legal pad open.

Heeseung clears his throat.

“I’m going to pair you off again,” he says, flipping his clipboard. “But this time, I want your arguments swapped. You take the opposite side.”

You stare.

Jay lifts an eyebrow.

“You want me to argue his way?”

“Yes,” Heeseung says. “And I want him to argue your way.”

Jay blinks.

You grin, evil. “You’re gonna have to talk about feelings.”

Heeseung claps. “Go!”

⸻

The debate starts.

You’ve never seen Jay struggle like this. His cadence is awkward. His tone too sharp. He stumbles over metaphors.

Meanwhile, you’re flourishing. You mimic his cold logic with exaggerated flair, slicing through rebuttals like a sword through butter.

People are laughing. Cheering. Filming.

You wink at him mid-argument.

He glares.

Afterwards, he storms past you in the hallway.

“Aw, come on,” you say, chasing after him. “I was brilliant.”

“You were mocking me.”

“I was learning your style!”

“You were flirting with the judge.”

You stop.

Jay stiffens. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“You think I was flirting?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Forget it.”

“No, wait—do you think that’s how I win? That I flirt?”

He says nothing.

Your voice drops. “That’s low, even for you.”

Jay turns to face you. “You manipulate.”

You fold your arms. “And you’re a robot.”

“You don’t respect the structure—”

“You don’t listen.”

The hallway is dead quiet. Your voices echo. Just the two of you. Staring each other down like rivals. Like combatants.

He’s breathing harder than usual.

You notice. So does he.

You open your mouth—maybe to argue again, maybe not.

But before you can speak, Heeseung calls you both from the end of the corridor. “You’re on in ten!”

Jay walks away without another word.

You watch him go.

And for the first time…

you’re not entirely sure how you feel.

_________

You wake up before your alarm.

The room is still and gray, painted in thin strips of dawn. Jay’s already up. Of course. He’s seated on the edge of his bed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes on something in his lap — a printed copy of the trial brief, annotated to death in his narrow handwriting.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, your face buried in the pillow.

There’s something eerily quiet about the way he moves. Precise. Measured. Like he lives by rituals: brush teeth, comb hair, destroy opponents.

It should annoy you.

It used to.

But this morning, you just feel… tired.

You roll over with a groan. “Did you sleep at all?”

Jay doesn’t look at you. “Enough.”

“Was I snoring?”

He hesitates. “…Only a little.”

You gasp. “I knew you were keeping a list.”

His mouth twitches.

You blink hard and sit up, brushing your hair away from your face. “Big day today.”

Jay nods. “First elimination round.”

You both fall quiet.

You pull your knees to your chest.

“Do you ever get tired?” you ask suddenly.

Jay looks over. Frowns. “Of what?”

“Of… keeping it all together.”

He stares at you. You don’t elaborate.

Eventually, he says: “You think I keep it together?”

You smile weakly. “Better than me.”

He doesn’t respond. He just watches you for a moment longer than he should.

And when he turns away, you swear it’s because he can’t afford to let it show — whatever that thing is behind his eyes.

⸻

Later, you’re seated in the prep room, heels off, feet tucked under you, highlighter between your teeth as you scribble final notes.

Jay’s across from you, typing. You haven’t spoken in over an hour.

But then, without looking up, he says quietly:

“You don’t need to impress the judges with charisma.”

You glance up, surprised.

Jay’s still typing. “Your logic’s strong enough to stand on its own.”

You blink.

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. But from him? It feels seismic.

You look down at your notes, heart unexpectedly tight.

“…Thanks.”

Silence.

Then: “You’re not just flair either,” you mutter, avoiding his eyes. “I mean… you don’t just win because you’re cold and smart. You’re terrifying because you actually care.”

Jay pauses.

Slowly, he closes his laptop.

When he looks at you, his expression is unreadable.

“That’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says.

You grin faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He doesn’t smile back.

But he doesn’t look away either.

⸻

The round is brutal.

Two hours of high-level argument, case law manipulation, and verbal fencing so sharp the judges barely have time to blink. You’re fire and chaos. Jay is ice and clarity. And somehow, it works.

When the verdict comes in your favor, the room explodes.

You’re pulled into hugs. Yunjin screams. Eunchae tries to jump into your arms and misses. Heeseung’s already pulling up the next bracket.

And Jay?

Jay just watches you.

Not smiling. Not celebrating. Just… watching.

Later, you find him outside, near the resort’s empty garden path. The sky’s heavy with storm light, and the air smells like ozone.

You sit beside him on the stone bench. Quiet.

He doesn’t move.

You fold your arms, stare out into the wind. “You okay?”

Jay’s eyes flick to you. “We won.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He exhales. Looks down at his hands.

“…You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You blink.

He still doesn’t look at you. “When I heard we’d be paired… I thought I’d be doing all the work.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“I was wrong.”

You pause. Your chest tightens strangely.

Jay finally turns his head. His gaze is still flat. But softer. Like a door that’s cracked open for the first time in years.

“I underestimated you,” he says.

The wind lifts your hair. You stare at him, breath caught in your throat.

And you don’t know what possesses you, but you whisper:

“Me too.”

⸻

That night, you can’t sleep.

Again.

You lie awake, eyes on the ceiling, breath shallow.

Jay is motionless in the bed beside you, as always.

You whisper into the dark: “Do you think we hate each other less now?”

No answer.

You roll over. “Jay?”

A beat.

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly.

You stare at the ceiling.

Then, very softly: “I don’t hate you either.”

Neither of you says anything else.

But when you wake the next morning, the blanket is tucked gently around your shoulders. And your charger—left tangled the night before—is plugged into your phone, perfectly wrapped.

You don’t mention it.

But you remember.

⸻

The next day is chaos.

A judge no-shows. The schedule collapses. A storm knocks out the power in half the resort.

You’re huddled in the dimly lit conference center, scribbling edits by flashlight. Your hair’s a mess, your mascara smudged, and you’ve got coffee spilled down one sleeve.

Jay shows up looking like he just stepped out of a courtroom in The Hague.

You glare. “Did you steal a generator for your curling iron?”

He blinks. “I don’t curl my—”

You throw a pen at him.

Later, when you’re mid-panic about a broken page reference in your outline, he sits beside you silently and starts fixing the citations without being asked.

You glance at him. He doesn’t look back.

But his hand is steady. His edits are cleaner than yours. And for some reason, you feel like crying.

You don’t.

But your voice is quiet when you say, “Thanks.”

Still no reply.

But he doesn’t move away.

⸻

That night is the final prep round.

You and Jay are in sync. No eye contact. No side comments. Just rhythm.

He finishes a rebuttal before you even raise your hand. You cite a case he hasn’t opened yet, and he adjusts mid-sentence to support it. The air is tight with shared momentum.

When the session ends, the judges nod. One claps.

“You’re a dangerous pair,” someone says.

You glance at Jay. He doesn’t smile. But his hand brushes yours briefly as you leave the room. And you don’t pull away. You tell yourself it means nothing. It’s just proximity.

But later that night, you sit awake again, watching his sleeping form in the dark, wondering when he started to feel less like an enemy…

…and more like something dangerous you might miss when this is over.

__________

You forget your flashcards.

It’s the morning of the semifinals, and your heart sinks the moment you realize. They’re not in your folder, not in your tote bag, not in your suitcase. You tear through everything twice.

Jay’s already dressed, tie knotted, jacket buttoned. He stands near the door, watching you panic.

“Did you leave them in the prep room?” he asks.

You blink. “No. I—I left them in the lounge. Last night. I was going over witness statements on the floor and I must’ve—”

You trail off, chest rising.

“I have backups,” you say, trying to sound calm.

Jay doesn’t speak.

You grab your bag, flustered. “It’s fine. I’ll—”

“I already got them.”

You freeze.

He steps forward, reaches into his folder, and pulls out your flashcards—bound with your glittery purple binder clip, a little bent at the corners but all there.

“I saw them under the table after you left,” he says simply. “Figured you’d need them.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs. “You panic without structure.”

You blink hard, unsure if you want to hug him or hit him.

“…Thanks,” you mutter, taking them. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

You say nothing. But your hands shake just a little less when you walk into the room that morning.

⸻

You win the round by a landslide.

It’s clean. It’s controlled. Your rhythm with Jay is airtight now—one argument, one breath, one unspoken signal passed across the table and picked up mid-sentence. The panel applauds before the feedback even begins.

As you exit the conference room, the hallway explodes with movement—Yunjin running toward you, Sunghoon whooping dramatically, Eunchae nearly knocking over a trash can trying to hug you both at once.

Jay stands behind you, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back for just a second too long. You don’t mention it. But you notice.

⸻

Lunch is chaos. Everyone’s celebrating. Someone found champagne. Heeseung is halfway into a story about his own semifinal victory when Jay sets a tray down across from you. You look up, surprised.

You’ve never seen him in the dining hall before. He usually eats alone, in silence, in some corner of the universe that doesn’t include the rest of the living. Now he’s here. Sitting beside you. And—god help you—he’s trying.

He even makes a comment about Heeseung’s story, dry as ever, but people laugh. His delivery is precise, but it lands.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s not looking at you. But his shoulder brushes yours under the table. When you offer him one of your fries, he doesn’t hesitate this time. Just takes one. Quietly. Yunjin notices. Raises an eyebrow. You ignore her.

⸻

Later, you’re reviewing one last case file before the final, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the prep room, hoodie sleeves rolled up, eyes bloodshot.

Jay walks in carrying a cup.

He holds it out.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“White mocha.”

Your jaw drops. “You remembered?”

“You ranted about it for ten minutes on the van ride. It wasn’t hard.”

You take the cup.

It’s perfect. Sweet, warm, exact ratio of foam to milk. Your favorite.

You look up at him.

“…You hate sweet things.”

He shrugs.

You pause. “Did you go all the way to the vending annex for this?”

He doesn’t answer.

You sit in stunned silence.

“…You’re trying to calm me down,” you say finally.

Jay looks away.

“I’m not panicking,” you insist.

“You’re shaking your leg again.”

You immediately stop.

He walks over to the table and sits beside you, unfolding his laptop. His arm brushes yours again. This time, neither of you moves away.

⸻

That night, the storm hits.

Hard.

Thunder cracks through the resort like a whip, and the power flickers twice before failing completely. The hallway lights snap out. Somewhere, Eunchae screams.

You sit up in bed, heart racing.

Jay’s already awake.

You can barely see him, but you hear the faint shift of fabric, the steady cadence of his breath.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“…Kinda creepy without the lights, huh?”

He doesn’t respond.

You sit in silence a moment.

Then: “I used to be scared of the dark.”

Jay shifts. “Used to?”

“I guess I still am.”

A pause.

You can’t see him in the pitch black. But you feel him—somehow, like gravity.

“I hated sleeping alone as a kid,” you admit. “My mom would leave the hall light on. She’d tell me it was the sun waiting outside the door.”

Jay exhales. A low, soft sound.

“I don’t sleep in silence,” he says after a moment. “I keep a white noise app on loop.”

You smile in the dark.

Another crack of thunder. You flinch.

Then—barely audible—his hand brushes yours between the beds. Not quite touching. But there.

Steady. Real.

“I’m not scared,” you lie.

“Okay.”

You fall asleep like that. The air still buzzing with electricity. His hand not touching yours, but close enough that your breath slows anyway.

⸻

The next morning, your phone dies.

You barely notice until you’re late for the final prep call and frantically trying to open your notes.

Jay’s already there, of course. When you arrive—half-wet from the rain, hair frizzy, eyes wild—he silently turns his screen toward you.

You blink.

He’s pulled up your outline. Annotated it. In your color system.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

But in your section, next to your weakest argument, he’s left a comment:

“You always go for emotion. Go for the throat instead. You can do it.”

You read it three times.

Your chest is tight. Again.

You don’t speak.

But when you look at him…

he’s already watching you.

⸻

You win the finals.

Barely. But you win.

The room explodes again. Applause. Laughter. People crying. Confetti (courtesy of Eunchae, who apparently packed a party popper “just in case”).

Jay is swarmed by congratulations, but he keeps glancing over at you.

You’re hugging Yunjin, breathless. Laughing. Your voice cracking from emotion.

When your eyes meet his, it’s not triumphant.

It’s soft.

Like maybe—for just a second—you forgot the rivalry.

And remembered it’s always been the two of you.

⸻

That night, as the team celebrates, you slip away.

You find yourself outside the resort, near the same quiet garden path. The storm has passed. The sky is open, dark and glittering.

You sit on the stone bench.

And then he’s there.

Jay.

He doesn’t ask to join you. Just does.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

For the first time since this started, there’s no need to fight. No debate. No scoreboard.

Just breath and silence and memory.

And something growing where rivalry used to be.

You don’t know what it is yet.

But you’re not afraid of it anymore.

And neither is he.

_______

The campus feels colder after the win.

Back at Holloway, you expect the buzz to fade, but it doesn’t. Everywhere you go, people talk about the victory. You and Jay. Them. The pair.

There’s even a thread on the university forum titled “Debate Barbie & Ice Prince: Is It Love or Just Tactical Alliance?”

You laugh when Yunjin shows it to you. Jay… does not.

He just reads the comments in silence, then closes the browser.

You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches slightly when he sees a photo of you laughing mid-trial.

⸻

The next week, you’re assigned your first on-campus exhibition debate — a solo round, but you’re expected to workshop it with your previous team partner.

Jay.

You meet in one of the unused classrooms at dusk. Tall windows, golden light spilling over dusty desks, the smell of dry markers and old books.

You’re seated cross-legged on top of a desk, a clipboard balanced on your knee.

Jay sits in the chair across from you. Legs spread, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the forearms.

He looks tired.

He’s never looked better.

You tap your pen against your chin. “I think I want to argue from the angle of comparative morality.”

Jay shakes his head. “Too abstract. You’ll lose the conservative judges.”

“So?”

“So you want to win, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes and hop off the desk, pacing now. “It’s not just about winning, it’s about making people think.”

Jay watches you move — slow, calculating. His fingers curl loosely around the armrest of his chair, and his foot taps faintly.

“You talk like a poet,” he murmurs.

You freeze. Turn.

His eyes are already back on the page. “That’s not an insult.”

You narrow your gaze. “Is it a warning?”

“No.” A pause. “It’s… a reminder. That you don’t think like everyone else.”

You tilt your head. “You mean that as a compliment?”

His eyes flick up. Hold yours.

“It’s an advantage,” he says quietly. “But it’s also why you throw people off balance. You don’t follow the rules.”

You step closer, arms folding. “Neither do you.”

Jay’s eyes flicker — almost imperceptibly — down your body, then back up.

You catch it.

He looks away.

⸻

You walk over to where he’s seated. Not threatening, not seductive—just tired. Just curious.

“You know…” you say, standing beside him, looking down. “For someone who hates people, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to. When you try.”

Jay glances up.

And then it happens.

The moment hangs. No fanfare. No sound. Just breath. Just eye contact. Something sharp in the quiet.

Jay’s gaze lingers longer than it should. His lips part slightly. His hand shifts on the armrest—tightens.

You take a half step back, heartbeat skipping. You meant it as a jab. You didn’t expect it to land.

Jay exhales. One slow breath. Then he stands.

You’re suddenly too close.

He’s tall. Too tall in moments like this. His eyes are dark, hooded with exhaustion and something else—something hotter, buried.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Your breath catches.

And then—

“Let’s run the opening again,” he says.

You nod. Too quickly. Step back. Turn around to grab your notes—

—and you don’t see the way he stares at your back, jaw tight, hands flexing once at his sides before he forces himself to move.

⸻

Hours pass.

You argue. Rehearse. Re-write. And somewhere around the fourth run, you get frustrated.

Your voice is louder. Your gestures sharp. You throw your pen down.

“I’m too emotional,” you snap. “Right? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

Jay looks up from his notes.

“I’m thinking,” he says calmly, “that you haven’t eaten in six hours, your eyeliner’s smudged, and you’re still the most compelling speaker I’ve heard this year.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps.

Jay doesn’t look away.

“You just need to stop trying to sound like me,” he adds. “You don’t win because you sound detached. You win because you make people care.”

You swallow.

“I thought you said that was manipulation.”

Jay steps forward.

His voice drops just slightly. “I said it works. I never said it was wrong.”

You meet his gaze.

And suddenly — it’s there.

A pause that stretches too long.

A breath too sharp.

Your hand at your side twitching.

Jay’s eyes on your mouth.

You both feel it.

You both try to ignore it.

And you fail.

You turn slightly. He steps closer. The tension in the air is nearly unbearable.

And then—

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jay doesn’t move.

But his voice, when it comes, is gravel.

“You do that a lot.”

You blink. “What?”

“You say things,” he murmurs, eyes trained on your face, “like you don’t know what you do to people.”

You inhale sharply.

“Jay—”

His name cracks out of your mouth too soft, too broken.

And that’s the moment.

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t touch you.

But his eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing it. His jaw is clenched. His throat moves with every shallow breath.

He leans in—barely, like instinct—but his hands stay clenched at his sides.

His voice is lower than it’s ever been.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

You don’t breathe.

He tilts his head, just enough for his breath to hit your cheek.

“You walk into every room like you own the air,” he says, voice husky. “Like you’ve never had to second-guess your shine. And then you look at me like you don’t even know.”

Your lips part.

Jay’s eyes flick down to your mouth. Then lower.

Slow.

Hungry.

His gaze drags down your throat, over your collarbones, lingers on the hem of your blouse where it’s started to slip.

He blinks hard. Steps back.

You’re shaking.

He drags a hand through his hair, visibly collecting himself. His chest rises. Falls. He’s breathing like he just ran ten miles.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks again.

“I’m going to get water.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He leaves the room like he’s about to burn alive.

You sit down.

Hard.

And you don’t move for a very long time.

_______

You haven’t spoken since that night.

Not really.

You’ve passed each other in the hall. Met in group study. Stood side by side in meetings. But the electricity that once crackled in your arguments is now something heavier, quieter.

Jay doesn’t look at you the same.

You don’t look away like you used to.

Something has changed, and it terrifies you both.

⸻

It comes to a head the night before your exhibition round.

You’ve stayed late in the Debate Club office, combing through notes under flickering fluorescent lights. Jay is across the room, seated with one leg crossed over the other, a legal pad balanced on his knee, pen idle in his hand.

You’ve said maybe ten words in the last hour.

You’re trying to work. Really, you are. But the silence is thick. And the longer it stretches, the harder it gets to breathe.

Finally, you exhale.

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

Jay doesn’t look up.

“About what.”

You stare at him. “Really?”

Nothing.

You drop your pen.

Jay flinches at the sound.

You rise slowly. Walk over. He still doesn’t meet your eyes.

You’re standing in front of him now.

“Jay.”

His jaw tightens.

“Park Jongseong.”

His pen snaps in half in his hand.

You both freeze.

Jay sets the broken pen aside with deliberate control, then stands. Close. Too close.

His voice is low. “You want me to say it?”

You stare at him, throat tight. “I want the truth.”

He exhales. Laughs once. Bitter.

Then he looks at you.

Really looks.

And it’s like watching something shatter behind his eyes.

“The truth,” he repeats.

You nod.

Jay steps closer. The air between you vibrates.

“You want to know why I can’t focus when you’re in the room?” he says, voice quiet and shaking. “Why I’ve rewritten the same brief five times just to delete it again the second you speak?”

You freeze.

“You want to know why I nearly lost it when that guy from Econ put his hand on your shoulder in the library?” His voice drops even lower. “Why I’m not sleeping. Not thinking. Why I can’t stop looking at your mouth when you talk like you’re not even aware of what you do to me?”

Your breath catches.

Jay leans in.

“I love you,” he says. Raw. Unsteady. “I’m so fucking in love with you it’s making me reckless.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

His eyes are dark and exposed — no mask, no filter, nothing but pure, open ruin. His fists are clenched like he’s trying not to touch you. His chest rises and falls with every strangled breath.

“I fought it,” he says, softer now. “God, I fought it.”

You don’t speak.

Jay laughs again — but it’s not amusement. It’s disbelief. Desperation.

“I told myself you were just annoying. Just bright and loud and distracting. That I didn’t like the way you smell. Or smile. Or fight. Or fix people without trying.”

His voice breaks slightly.

“I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”

You’re still frozen.

Jay steps back — just half a step — like he’s bracing for rejection. Like he’s already writing his apology in his head.

And that’s what makes you move.

You reach out.

You grab the front of his shirt.

And you pull.

Hard.

Your lips crash into his before he can speak again — desperate, breathless, not careful. His hands catch your waist like instinct, anchoring you. One slides up your back. The other grabs a fistful of your shirt.

He kisses you like he’s been dying.

Like this is the first time he’s let himself want something.

You gasp when his teeth drag across your bottom lip. He groans — low, guttural — like he’s been holding back too long.

And then — he pulls away.

Just barely.

His forehead rests against yours. His breathing is ragged.

“I didn’t plan this,” he whispers.

You shake your head. “I know.”

“I still hate how loud you are.”

You smile. “I know.”

“I’m still not done falling.”

You pause.

Your voice breaks when you say, “Then don’t stop.”

Jay leans in again. Slower this time.

But deeper.

Like a confession sealed in the dark.

_______

You’re not used to being quiet around Jay.

Not like this.

Not in the way that feels… soft. Like silence is no longer a battlefield, but a secret you’re both holding between your teeth.

You’re sitting beside him in the nearly empty student café, legs tangled together under the table. Your laptop is open, but you haven’t looked at it in fifteen minutes. You’re watching him instead — chin resting in your palm, your eyes tracing the curve of his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he’s thinking.

Jay doesn’t notice at first.

Or maybe he does.

Because a second later, he glances at you. Blinks slowly. And his whole face softens — just like that.

You grin. “You’re staring at your screen like it owes you money.”

“I’m trying to finish the case brief before my brain collapses,” he murmurs.

“Want me to help?”

He pauses. Looks at you again.

And his voice is gentle when he says, “No. I just wanted to sit near you.”

Your heart stutters.

He says it like a fact. Like telling you the weather. Like of course.

You smile at your coffee cup. “You’re not as emotionally constipated as I thought you were.”

“I’ve had practice. You make it easier.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

Jay leans back in his chair, stretching slightly, fingers laced behind his head. His shirt pulls just a little across his chest, and you hate how distracted you are by that.

“Because you don’t pull away,” he says.

You blink.

He shrugs. “You don’t flinch. You don’t apologize for being loud or messy or bold. You argue like you’ve never had to apologize for taking up space.”

You go still.

Jay turns to look at you fully now, all of him — quiet, intense, open.

“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your breath catches.

You say nothing for a second.

Then, soft as breath:

“I’m in love with you too, you know.”

Jay’s gaze falters.

He swallows.

“You don’t have to say it back—”

“I want to,” you interrupt. “I’ve been wanting to.”

Jay goes silent.

Then: “When did you know?”

You smile a little. “When you brought me coffee. The kind I like. Without asking.”

He exhales. A small, broken laugh.

“You know what’s annoying?” you add.

“What?”

You lean forward, fingers toying with the hem of his sleeve. “Even when you were being impossible, even when I wanted to strangle you with your own tie, I still kind of wanted to kiss you.”

Jay’s eyes darken. Just slightly.

“Still kind of?” he murmurs.

You grin. “I’m being polite.”

He laughs again — soft and real.

And then he says, “You’re everything I’ve never let myself want.”

And you feel it, somewhere deep in your chest — that dangerous, crumbling warmth.

⸻

That night, you’re in the study lounge again. Just the two of you. The others have gone home. The storm outside drums softly against the windows.

Jay is sitting on the couch with his head tilted back, eyes closed. You’re curled beside him, your legs thrown across his lap, reading off a case note.

“Hypothetically,” you say slowly, “if one partner were to… say, distract the other during prep, would that be grounds for debate misconduct?”

Jay’s eyes open.

And they’re darker than they were a moment ago.

“Depends,” he says.

“On what?”

He shifts, and suddenly his hand is on your calf. Just resting. His thumb brushes back and forth.

“On how distracting,” he murmurs.

You pause.

Your heart stutters.

“You think I’m distracting?” you whisper.

Jay smiles — slow, wicked, reverent.

“I think you’ve been driving me insane since the first day you walked into class in that ridiculous orange blazer.”

You gape. “You remember my blazer?”

“Of course I do.”

You blink rapidly. “You said it was unprofessional.”

Jay leans closer. His hand slides up, just a little — from your calf to your knee, fingertips tracing your skin.

“I lied,” he says softly. “It made it impossible to focus.”

You’re staring at him now. Your mouth has gone dry.

Jay’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You make me want things I never gave myself permission to want.”

You swallow.

He moves his hand up again. Just barely. But it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re flirting with me in the most romantic way possible,” you murmur.

Jay tilts his head, and his eyes gleam.

“I’m falling for you in the most helpless way possible.”

You can’t look away.

He leans in. Not to kiss. Just to be close. His nose brushes yours. His voice is low and close enough to feel.

“You make me want to be gentle,” he says. “But I don’t always know how.”

You whisper, “Then learn with me.”

Jay’s hand tightens on your leg, just a little. His eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, raw.

“You won’t.”

He breathes once. Twice. Then opens his eyes and looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the world.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

You smile.

And say, just as quietly:

“I’ve been yours.”

_________

It starts with a book.

You’re in your dorm common room, curled on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, highlighting a passage from a criminal ethics textbook. Your knees are tucked beneath you. You’ve been reading out loud without realizing, voice soft and lazy.

Jay walks in. He’d planned to drop off your USB. Nothing more.

But the moment he sees you like that — hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair messy, bare legs stretched out — something changes in his chest.

He stops walking. You glance up. Smile.

“You okay?” you ask. He doesn’t answer at first.

His gaze drops to your exposed thigh, then to the highlighter in your hand. Yellow ink is smudged on your knuckle. There’s a post-it stuck to your bare knee.

Jay’s jaw clenches. His eyes lift slowly to yours.

“I just came to drop this off,” he says, holding up the USB.

You hold out your hand. “Come here.” He hesitates. Then walks over.

You shift, making space beside you. Jay sits stiffly, like he’s afraid to move. You tilt your head, watching him with soft curiosity.

“Why are you acting like I bite?”

Jay doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay forward.

You smile. “Okay, fine. You don’t have to stay.”

You go back to your book. And a minute later, you feel it.

His hand on your leg. Barely there. Just resting. But deliberate. You freeze. Jay doesn’t say a word. His thumb moves slowly against your inner thigh — innocent at first, like he’s just grounding himself.

But then he does it again. Slower. Deeper. You don’t look up.

You whisper, “Jay.”

He hums. His fingers slide higher, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re distracting me,” you murmur.

“I know.”

His voice is deeper now. A little hoarse.

You finally glance at him.

And your breath catches.

Jay is staring at you like he’s starved. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth slightly open. His other hand is braced against the back of the couch, and he’s leaning into you now — his entire body tense like he’s barely holding back.

You blink up at him. “What are you doing?”

He exhales. “Trying not to ruin you on this couch.”

Your heart punches your ribs.

You open your mouth — to protest, to tease, you don’t know — but he’s already leaning in.

He kisses you.

Slow.

Firm.

But it’s not polite this time. It’s not careful.

It’s claiming.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, pulling you closer. Your book falls to the floor, forgotten. He kisses you again, harder now, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you rolled your eyes at him in class.

You gasp. And he growls.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “You started it.”

His hand drags up under your hoodie, fingers grazing your bare stomach. You twitch.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “Words.”

You whisper, “Yes. Please.”

That’s all he needs.

He pushes you gently back against the couch, climbing over you — not fast, not rough. Just desperate. His knee slots between yours. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. Every kiss is deliberate. Slow. Soaked in hunger.

“Been thinking about this for weeks,” he groans. “The way you look at me… the way you argue… fuck.”

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, thumbs brushing your ribcage. You arch into him, gasping.

And that’s when he snaps.

Jay pulls the hoodie off in one motion. His eyes drop.

You’re not wearing a bra.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

He doesn’t even ask.

His mouth closes around your nipple, hot and wet, and your back arches off the couch.

You cry out.

He moans against your chest like it’s killing him. “You taste so good, baby. Fuck.”

His hand dips between your thighs — palm pressed against your clothed core. He groans again.

“You’re wet.”

You whimper. “Jay—”

“You’re soaking through,” he growls. “Did that happen just from me kissing you?”

You nod. Barely.

He grins — dark and slow and dangerous.

“Fuck. You’re mine.”

He slides your shorts down. Pauses. You’re dripping. Jay stares. Then leans down and licks you. One long, slow stripe. You scream his name. And he moans. Like he’s just tasted heaven.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he whispers. “Been dreaming about this. Every night. Didn’t think it’d be this good.”

His tongue circles your clit. Teases. Presses down. His fingers slide into you slowly — two at once — and your thighs tremble.

“Jay, please—”

“Yeah?” he pants. “What do you want, sunshine?”

You choke on air.

He smirks against you. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Beg.”

“Jay—”

“Beg for my cock.”

You blink up at him, ruined.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please fuck me.”

Jay growls.

He undoes his jeans with shaking hands, pulls them down just enough. His cock springs free — flushed, hard, already leaking. You reach for him.

He grabs your wrist. Pins it above your head.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice low. “Tonight, I do everything. You just take it.”

You bite your lip. Jay lines himself up. Then slides in. Slow. Thick. Deep. You gasp. He moans like he’s dying.

“So tight,” he grits. “So warm. Fuck, baby—fuck.”

He starts moving. And you fall apart.

________

The moment he pushes in, your breath stops.

Jay is slow at first. Painfully slow. Like he’s memorizing every heartbeat of your body.

His cock splits you open with deliberate care — thick, flushed, so hard you feel every twitch, every vein, every stretch.

He’s on his elbows above you, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and shallow.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven.”

Your hands are tangled in his hair, and your legs are wrapped around his hips. Your walls clench around him instinctively, and Jay moans — a sound from the base of his throat, raw and ruined.

He’s shaking.

Not from restraint. From feeling.

“I can’t—” he pants, eyes screwed shut. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple. “I’ve always been yours.”

That breaks him.

Jay thrusts.

Hard.

You gasp — it punches through your lungs. His hips roll, slow and deep, and his cock drags against every nerve inside you, thick and perfect and made to fit.

“Oh my god—”

He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in — balls slapping against your ass, the weight of him filling you, stretching you. His groan is helpless. Animal.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls. “So warm—fuck—I could die like this.”

Your nails dig into his back. “Don’t stop—please—Jay—”

“I won’t,” he pants. “I can’t.”

His pace builds. Not brutal — just desperate. His hips stutter. Every thrust makes his balls slap against your soaked folds. You feel every twitch of his cock as he drags through your walls, then sinks back to the hilt again.

“You were made for me,” he gasps. “Fuck, baby—you were fucking made for me.”

You can’t speak. You’re sobbing under him, head thrown back, body arching to meet every stroke. The couch creaks beneath you both.

Jay leans down, kisses your mouth — soft and shaking — then moans into you as his cock thrusts deeper.

“Look at me,” he begs.

You do.

And he’s crying.

Actual tears, caught in his lashes, spilling as he rocks into you, as his hips twitch and his voice breaks.

“I love you,” he says, wrecked. “I love you, I love you—fuck, I’ve never—”

You cry, too. Eyes wide, hands cradling his face.

“I love you more,” you whisper. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Jay slams into you.

Hard.

You scream — because it hits your spot so deep your vision blurs.

He grits his teeth. “You take me so well—so fucking good for me—shit, I’m so close, baby—”

His cock twitches inside you with every word, his balls tightening as he thrusts faster, harder. Every move is pure desperation — pelvis grinding, sweat slicking his chest to yours, your thighs trembling from how deep he’s driving.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “You want that? You want me to come inside?”

You sob. “Yes—please—”

“You’re mine,” he gasps. “Mine—mine—mine—”

His thrusts falter. He chokes on a cry.

And then he comes — cock pulsing deep inside you, hips pressed tight to yours, his whole body trembling as he spills into you.

You clench around him, crying out his name, and the orgasm slams through you too — walls fluttering, back arching, vision going white with it. You both go still. Breathing. Shaking.

He collapses onto you, but doesn’t pull out. His cock stays inside, twitching gently. You’re full. So full.

Jay’s face is in your neck. His breath hitches.

“I love you,” he whispers again.

You kiss his temple. Your voice trembles. “I know. I love you too.”

_______

The sunlight comes through the windows like honey.

You wake slowly, your face pressed into a warm chest, fingers splayed across a bare shoulder. Jay’s arms are wrapped around you, one leg tangled between yours, his breath soft and even against your hair.

You shift slightly. He stirs. And then — the quietest, sleepiest groan rumbles in his throat. You glance up. His eyes flutter open. Focus. And then he smiles. That smile. The kind that makes your stomach somersault.

“…Hi,” you whisper.

Jay tightens his grip. “No. Stay.”

You laugh into his collarbone. “We’re going to be late.”

“I don’t care.”

“You always care.”

“I don’t now.”

You grin. “Why not?”

He kisses your forehead. “Because I get to wake up next to you.”

⸻

By the time you make it to the quad, it’s already buzzing. Yunjin spots you first.

She raises an eyebrow as you approach, your hair still a little mussed, Jay’s hoodie wrapped around your frame.

She looks at the two of you. Then at the faint bruise on your neck. Then slowly raises her iced coffee like a toast. “Finally.”

Sunghoon turns. “Wait, what?”

Eunchae nearly drops her bag. “Did they kiss?”

Yunjin grins. “Oh, baby girl. They did a lot more than kiss.”

Jay lets out the softest exhale through his nose and runs a hand down his face.

You shoot her a look. “Yunjin.”

“What?”

Heeseung strolls up just then, flipping a file open. “Please tell me I don’t have to reassign the team because of some domestic dispute—”

“No dispute,” you say quickly.

Jay adds, without hesitation: “I’m hers.”

Your heart lurches.

The group goes quiet.

Then Yunjin squeals. Eunchae gasps. Sunghoon throws his arm around Jay’s shoulders like a proud older brother.

“Oh my god, she claimed him,” Eunchae whispers.

“Finally,” Yunjin beams. “My enemies-to-lovers brain has been starving.”

⸻

Later, after the crowd disperses, you’re sitting on a picnic blanket in the quad, cross-legged, eating from a container of sliced fruit. Jay’s beside you — leaning back on one arm, his other hand resting just barely over your ankle.

You’re telling him about something small — a memory from high school, or maybe the way your dad used to quiz you on Supreme Court cases during road trips. Your words tangle, build on each other, spiral into full-blown storytelling, animated hand gestures and soft laughter and a rant about judicial language.

Jay says nothing. Not because he’s not listening. But because he can’t look away. His eyes are fixed on your face — soft, glowing, focused with such intensity it could light the sun. You’re talking a mile a minute. You’re not even trying. And you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His chest aches. He’s never loved anyone like this. Not even close.

Later that evening, he finds you alone by the study hall window. Sunset leaks orange through the glass, painting the carpet in warm light.

You’re reading. Jay stops in front of you.

You glance up. “Hey—”

“I need to ask you something.” You blink. “Okay?”

Jay looks wrecked. Beautiful. Like he’s bursting.

He walks closer. Slowly. Kneels down in front of you.

Your breath catches. “Jay?”

He doesn’t take your hands. Doesn’t touch you.

He just looks up at you — eyes wide, heart open, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t want this to be a phase,” he says quietly. “I don’t want it to be casual. I don’t want it to be uncertain.”

You swallow.

Jay’s voice breaks. “Can I be yours?” You stare.

“I mean it,” he says, and this time it’s desperate. “I don’t just want to be with you. I want to be your boyfriend. Your partner. Your person.” He breathes hard.

“Can I please be your boyfriend?”

Silence. Then you lean forward, cupping his face. Your voice is soft and shaking.

“You already are.”

Jay closes his eyes. And exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe. You pull him into a kiss. Long. Warm. Certain. And when you pull away, your forehead pressed to his, you whisper:

“You’re it for me.”

Jay smiles. And this time, it reaches his eyes.

____________

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summary: You’ve spent months breaking Sunghoon down — stalking him, destroying him, making him beg at your feet. But hate and need blur in the dark, and when he finally snaps, the dynamic shatters. What begins as your game ends with Sunghoon flipping the script, taking what he needs, using you until you’re ruined on the cold ground, claimed and claiming, breathless and broken in the mess you both made.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You watch him through the slit between the library shelves, fingers ghosting over the spine of a book you have no intention of borrowing. Park Sunghoon sits at a table bathed in afternoon light, head down, flipping through notes, pen tapping in a rhythm he probably doesn't even notice. His hair glints in the sun, flawless, as if he was sculpted to be cruel. The kind of face that was never meant for people like you — except that he is, and he just doesn't know it yet.

He doesn't glance up, doesn't sense you. Not yet. You've trained yourself to breathe quietly, to move like a shadow. He's too focused on his study group, too focused on making everyone else in the room love him the way you do.

Jake leans over his shoulder, laughing at some inside joke. You hate Jake. That easy, golden warmth of his — it keeps Sunghoon protected, surrounded. A buffer between him and you. You want to shatter it.

You stay until the group packs up, watching every movement. The way Sunghoon slings his bag over one shoulder. The way he runs a hand through his hair. The way he says goodbye to the others, polite but distant, perfect and untouchable.

When he leaves, you follow.

⸻

His dorm smells like him. Not just the cologne he wears — something deeper. Skin. Sweat. Clean linen mixed with the faintest trace of detergent. You stand in the center of his room like you belong there, like he should walk in any second and see you as his.

You sit on his bed, legs crossed. Fingers trail over the sheets, his pillow, the edge of his desk. You press your face to the pillow and breathe him in, slow and deep, until your head feels light from the rush of it.

You wear his discarded hoodie, oversized on you, sleeves brushing your thighs as you move. You study the small things — the books stacked neatly on his nightstand, the worn corners of his wallet, the faint smudge on his mirror where he touches it in the morning.

At his desk, you slip a hand under your skirt. Slow. Controlled. No mess. Just the high of knowing this is his space, his chair, his world — and you are in it, silent and unseen. When you're done, you straighten your clothes, smooth the sheets, leave everything the way it was. Except the strand of your hair on his pillow. The fingerprint on his mirror. The smallest, quietest marks of ownership.

You take a pen from his desk — nothing dramatic. Just enough that he'll notice it's gone, but won't think to question where it went.

⸻

When you pass him on campus the next day, his reaction is immediate. His jaw tightens. His lips press into a thin, angry line. His eyes — those beautiful, cold eyes — flick over you with pure contempt.

"Stop looking at me like that," he snaps under his breath, low enough that only you can hear as he brushes past. His voice is venom. "Freak."

Your pulse races.

You say nothing. Just watch as he walks faster, shoulders rigid, desperate to get away from you.

⸻

Later, you catch glimpses of him in the student union, the quad, the gym. Always surrounded. Always shining. And always, always hating you.

You hear Jake talking about him with someone at a table near yours:

"Yeah, Sunghoon's been on edge lately. He thinks some girl's been following him or something. I dunno, maybe it's just stress."

You sip your drink, smiling to yourself.

Yunjin watches you from across the room, brows slightly furrowed, as if she's trying to figure out what it is about you that sets her teeth on edge. She says nothing. But she sees more than she lets on.

⸻

Night falls, and you're outside his dorm again. The window cracked open just enough that you can hear the faint sounds of him moving around — drawers opening, water running.

You record it. Every sound. Every breath. Every piece of him you can steal without touching.

You don't need him to want you. Not yet. It's enough, for now, that he exists in your orbit.

It's enough that you know: you're already inside his life. And he hates it.

____

Sunghoon doesn't notice it at first. The small, quiet ways you start pulling the threads loose around him. It begins with a simple shift in a group project — you speak with the professor after class, voice soft, eyes wide, and suggest that maybe Sunghoon would work better with someone else. That he mentioned, in passing, how stressed he felt about carrying certain partners. A lie, smooth and subtle. The professor believes you. The group is split. Sunghoon hears about it that afternoon.

He corners Jake outside the lecture hall, voice tight. "Why would I say that? I didn't say that."

Jake shrugs, frowning in confusion. "I dunno, man. That's what Professor Song said you implied. Maybe she misunderstood."

Sunghoon's eyes are dark, frustrated. "I'm getting sick of this shit."

⸻

The next move is easier. You intercept one of his texts — you have his passcode. You saw it months ago, reflected in the glass of the vending machine as he typed. You borrow Yunjin's charger, make an excuse about needing to message someone, and in the privacy of your room, you send the text.

hey can we not tonight. feeling off.

It goes to Sakura. The girl he's been seeing.

Later, from the shadows near the quad, you watch them. She approaches him, confused, hurt. He looks at her like she's speaking another language.

"I didn't send that," he says, voice low, glancing around as if he can sense you. "I didn't—what the fuck is going on?"

Sakura's brows knit. "Sunghoon, if you wanted space, you could just say it."

"I didn't!" His voice rises, and people turn. Embarrassment colors his cheeks. He lowers his head, mutters something, and walks away.

Your heart races with the beauty of it — how easily the cracks begin to form.

⸻

In the dining hall, you sit a few tables away from Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay. You don't look at them directly. You don't need to.

"Dude, you're seriously being paranoid," Jay says, laughing as he steals one of Jake's fries. "No one's after you."

"I know what I feel," Sunghoon mutters, stabbing at his food without appetite. "It's like—I don't know. Like I'm being watched. And shit keeps happening. I swear, someone's messing with me."

Jake claps him on the shoulder. "You're stressed, man. You need to chill. Maybe cut back on the late practices or something."

Sunghoon shrugs him off, glancing around, jaw tight. His gaze skims past you. He looks right through you, as if trying to find the eyes he can feel but can't see.

⸻

That night, you leave something in his room. You don't break in — no, you've gotten smarter. You slip it through the cracked window he always forgets to lock. A folded paper crane. Plain white. No writing. No mark. Just a shape, delicate and small, left on his desk where he'll find it in the morning.

It's enough to unnerve him. You hear it in the way he snaps at Jake the next day.

"I lock my door. I lock my window. How is this happening?"

Jake frowns, concerned now. "Bro, maybe talk to campus security?"

"No. No — fuck, no. I can handle it."

His pride won't let him admit that he's afraid. But you can see it. The way he glances over his shoulder more often. The way his smiles fade quicker now, no longer effortless.

⸻

Meanwhile, Yunjin watches you. In the bathroom as you apply lip balm. In your room as you quietly hum to yourself, phone screen dark, but your mind full of him.

"You've been... different lately," she says carefully one night. "I mean — you were always a little... intense. But it's worse now."

You smile at her, sweet and empty. "You're imagining things."

She doesn't press further. Not yet.

⸻

The world begins to turn against him, one tiny twist at a time. You change the narrative in small, believable ways — a word here, a rumor there. His friends start noticing his moodiness, his paranoia.

And he hates you more. Every glance, every sharp word, every time his eyes find yours across a room and narrow with disgust — it feeds you. Fuels you.

He doesn't know it yet. But you're already wrapping him in a web he won't escape.

It starts to show in the small moments. Sunghoon sits at the edge of the field after practice, head in his hands, laces undone, as Jake chats easily with the others. Normally, Sunghoon would be laughing too, shoving Jake for being dumb, flashing that polished smile that makes everyone want to be near him. But now? His smile is brittle. His eyes dart across the field, sweeping the shadows, the edges, the empty bleachers where you sit unseen. He looks tired. Angry. Alone — and you've barely begun.

You planted the first seeds with Jay. It was too easy. Jay always thought you were hot — the kind of hot that makes boys reckless. You cornered him at a party, brushed his hand as you passed him a drink. Let him feel the weight of your gaze, the heat of your proximity. He bit.

"He's been weird lately, right?" you murmur, casual, like it's nothing. Like you're on Sunghoon's side. "Sunghoon, I mean. Standoffish. Like he's better than everyone else."

Jay scoffs, beer bottle tapping against his knee. "I've been saying that for months."

You tilt your head, smile faintly. "People like that always end up alone."

Jay watches you walk away, the shape of your hips burned into his mind. He'll remember your words, though he won't admit it.

⸻

Yunjin sees it happening. She sees the way you linger at windows, the way your phone is always in your hand but never lit up. She watches you as you hum under your breath, folding tiny paper cranes out of receipts and scraps, leaving them around the dorm like breadcrumbs of your mind.

One evening, she tries. She really tries.

“y/n," she says, voice low as she leans against the doorframe of your room. "I don't know what you're doing — but please stop. Whatever it is, it's not healthy."

You look at her, eyes wide with false innocence. "What do you mean?"

She shakes her head. "You know."

But she can't prove it. Not yet. And you smile, soft and polite, and close your door in her face.

⸻

Jake invites Sunghoon out more often, trying to pull him back into the circle. But you're there — not openly, never openly — but in the background. At the bar. At the library. On the paths he walks at night. And people start talking.

"She's everywhere he is."

"Maybe she's just into him and he's not into her."

"Maybe he led her on. He's such a fucking flirt sometimes."

The rumors twist. People who used to admire him now look at him differently, just a little. The flawless image cracks.

And Sunghoon knows. He knows someone is doing this to him, and he knows it's you.

"Stay the fuck away from me," he spits one afternoon when he catches you watching him outside the dining hall. His voice is sharp enough that Jake looks over, startled.

You don't flinch. You just smile, that slow, knowing curve of your lips that makes his skin crawl.

Jake jogs over as Sunghoon turns away. "Bro, what the hell? She didn't even say anything."

Sunghoon's hands are fists at his sides. "I can't breathe, Jake. She's always fucking there."

"Dude, maybe you should talk to someone."

"No. I'm fine."

But he's not. You see it. The way he walks faster now, always looking over his shoulder. The way he keeps his head down, shoulders tense, as if waiting for the next blow.

⸻

And still, you push deeper.

You send anonymous messages from burner accounts to people he cares about. Hints that Sunghoon talks about them behind their backs. That he thinks he's better than them. That he uses them.

It works. Little by little, his inner circle shrinks. Jay stops inviting him out. The others are polite, but distant. Even Jake starts looking at him like he's fragile, breakable, and Sunghoon hates it.

You see him alone more now. Sitting on the library steps at night, staring at his phone as if the right words might save him. They won't.

He's slipping. And you're the only constant left.

You see it coming long before it happens — the moment Sunghoon snaps. You've been winding the threads tighter for weeks, pulling at the seams of his perfect life until they fray in your hands. Now, he walks the campus like a shadow of himself. His friends keep their distance, their trust cracked by whispers you planted. His posture is different: shoulders drawn, jaw clenched, eyes hollowed out by sleepless nights spent wondering when you'll strike next. You've been everywhere and nowhere, and it's driven him mad.

It happens on a Thursday. Overcast. The kind of day where the world feels heavier. You're in the library — not even trying to hide, sitting at one of the tables where he used to study with his friends, legs crossed, fingers idly tracing patterns on the wood. He walks in, looking for peace, and finds you instead.

At first, he freezes. His hands flex at his sides. His breathing changes. You can hear it — sharp, ragged. Then he moves toward you, fast, footsteps loud in the quiet. People glance up from their books, sensing the storm.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice is low, shaking with the effort not to shout. His hands slam down on the table, inches from yours. The sound echoes.

You look up at him slowly, meeting his eyes with that calm, endless gaze that makes him recoil. "Hello, Sunghoon."

His lip curls. "Don't say my name. Don't fucking say my name."

You tilt your head. "Why not? It's a beautiful name."

He's trembling now — not with fear. With rage. Pure, blinding hate. His face is flushed, his breath uneven. "Leave me alone. Do you get off on this? On ruining my life?"

A pause. You smile, soft and sweet. "I don't know what you mean."

He laughs — short, bitter. "You're insane. I don't know what your fucking problem is, but I'm done. Stay away from me. Stay the fuck away."

People are watching now. Jake hurries over, pulling at Sunghoon's arm. "Bro, calm down — it's not worth it."

Sunghoon shrugs him off. His eyes are locked on yours, full of venom. "You disgust me. You're sick. Don't come near me again."

You watch him go, his words like music. Each one feeding that hunger inside you. His hate is perfect. His hate is everything.

⸻

Later, in the dorm common room, Jake tries to reason with him.

"She's creepy, yeah, but maybe you're letting her get to you too much. You're not yourself lately."

Sunghoon sinks into the couch, head in his hands. "You don't get it, Jake. She's everywhere. I see her in my dreams. I wake up thinking she's in my room. I can't fucking breathe."

Jake sighs, helpless. "We'll figure it out. Just... don't let her win, okay?"

But Sunghoon doesn't answer. His mind is spinning, drowning in the weight of it all.

⸻

Yunjin sits with a group of friends in the dining hall that night, quiet as she listens to the gossip spreading through campus.

"Did you see Sunghoon lose it today? Jesus."

"Yeah, it was about that girl, right? The weird one?"

"She's hot, though. Like, scary hot."

"Whatever, she's a freak. Poor guy."

Yunjin's eyes find you across the room. You sit alone, eating slowly, serenely, as if nothing happened. As if you aren't the storm tearing through Sunghoon's world.

She shivers.

⸻

And Sunghoon? Sunghoon lies awake that night, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched in his sheets. His heart races, mind filled with images of your smile, your eyes, the way you look at him like he already belongs to you.

He hates you.

God, he hates you.

And that hate is the only thing holding him together.

You always knew she'd be the one to go first. Sakura — pretty in that harmless, soft way that makes boys like Sunghoon think they're safe. She clings to him like a lifeline these days, the last one who tries to keep him anchored as the world turns against him. And he lets her, because what else does he have left? Jake's still around, sure, but even Jake has started watching him too closely, like he's waiting for Sunghoon to crack. Jay's no help, useless now that you've driven that wedge so deep it'll never come loose. So it's Sakura he leans on. And that's why you know: she has to be shattered.

You start with the simplest thing — a note slipped under her door. Handwritten, no signature, just a single sentence that could have come from anyone, but that you know will land like a blade.

He's still seeing her. The one who's ruining him.

No details. No proof. Just enough to make her wonder. Enough to plant the seed.

⸻

You watch from the corner of the quad the next day as she approaches Sunghoon after his lecture. Her face is tight, eyes bright with questions she doesn't want to ask. He looks exhausted, bag slung low, hair messy, as if he didn't bother to check the mirror this morning.

"I just want to know the truth," you hear her say as you linger behind a tree, out of sight but close enough to catch every word.

"The truth about what?" His voice is sharp, defensive. He's on edge, and it shows.

"About her."

He stiffens. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"She's everywhere. People see it. I see it. Are you—are you doing something? Are you leading her on? Is that why she won't stop?"

His laugh is bitter, hollow. "You think I want this? You think I want her?" He runs a hand through his hair, voice rising. "I can't fucking breathe, Sakura. She's killing me."

Sakura flinches at the venom in his tone, the rawness of his desperation. She looks down, lips pressed together. And in that moment, you know she's slipping from him.

⸻

You don't stop. The next night, you send the messages — screenshots fabricated with care, as if from Sunghoon's number. Sweet words, apologies, confessions he never made. You make sure they're just real enough to sting.

I'm sorry I can't let go of her. It's complicated.

You wouldn't understand. I didn't mean to hurt you.

And Sakura, soft and foolish, believes what she sees.

⸻

Sunghoon finds her crying two days later, seated on the low stone wall near the student union. Her hands shake as she wipes at her face, and when he reaches out, she pulls away.

"Sakura—"

"No. Don't." Her voice breaks. "I don't even know who you are anymore. I can't do this."

His heart sinks. He tries to explain, tries to tell her the messages aren't from him, that he would never — but she's already gone, walking away, shoulders hunched like she's carrying the weight of the entire world.

⸻

Jake corners him that night in the dorms, worried.

"Bro, what happened?"

Sunghoon shakes his head, laughter bubbling up, wild and empty. "She's gone. They're all gone." His eyes are glassy, haunted. "It's just me now. Me and that fucking psycho watching from the dark."

Jake looks stricken. "Sunghoon, come on. Let me help—"

"No." His voice is hoarse. "No one can help me."

⸻

Yunjin hears the gossip spreading through the girls' dorms — about how Sakura broke it off, how Sunghoon finally lost the last person who cared. She hears your name whispered like a curse. And she looks at you across the common room, sitting in perfect stillness, a ghost wrapped in human skin, and feels a chill run down her spine.

She wants to say something. She opens her mouth. But the look in your eyes stops her cold.

You've won this round. And Sunghoon knows it.

That night, you watch him from your usual hidden vantage point. Alone in his room, head bowed, fists clenched in his lap.

And you smile.

Sunghoon walks through campus like a man being hunted. Because he is — and he knows it now. His steps are quick, his head down, his hoodie pulled low over his face even though the spring air is warm. His world has shrunk to a tight, suffocating circle: dorm, class, practice — and even those feel like traps. Every glance he catches, every laugh that echoes down the hall, he wonders if it's about him. And worst of all? He knows it doesn't matter anymore. They could be laughing at him, whispering about him, and there's nothing he can do. You've seen to that.

Jake tries to keep him steady. He sits with him at lunch, makes stupid jokes, drags him to the gym to blow off steam. But Sunghoon is hollow. He goes through the motions, lifts the weights, nods at the right times, but his mind is always somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. He feels your eyes even when he can't see you. Especially then.

"Let's go out tonight," Jake suggests one afternoon, throwing a towel over his shoulder as they finish up at the gym. "You need to get out of your head, man. A party. A bar. Anywhere but here."

Sunghoon shakes his head, eyes dark. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Sunghoon hesitates, then mutters, "She'll follow."

Jake stops, frowning. "Sunghoon..."

But Sunghoon is already walking away, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with tension that no amount of lifting or running can shake loose.

⸻

Yunjin watches it all unfold from a distance. She sees the way Sunghoon drifts through the quad like a ghost. She sees the way you watch him — not openly, but always. At the edge of groups. In the corner of rooms. Always close enough to see, never close enough to catch.

One evening, she tries again. She finds you on your bed, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over your stomach like you're waiting for something. Or someone.

"You're destroying him," she says quietly. No accusation in her tone — just sadness, maybe a little fear.

You turn your head, meet her gaze. "He's fine."

Yunjin's eyes harden. "No. He's not."

You smile, soft and unbothered. "Then maybe he should have been stronger."

She leaves without another word.

⸻

Jay sees Sunghoon in the student union the next day — sitting alone at a table in the corner, head bowed over his untouched coffee. Jay hesitates, then approaches, sliding into the seat across from him.

"Hey," Jay says, voice forced-light. "Long time."

Sunghoon looks up slowly, eyes ringed with shadows. "What do you want?"

Jay shrugs, leaning back. "Just checking in. You look like shit."

Sunghoon huffs a bitter laugh. "Thanks."

Jay studies him for a moment, then leans forward, voice dropping. "Is it really that bad? With her?"

Sunghoon's jaw tightens. His hands curl around the coffee cup like he might crush it. "Worse."

Jay leans back again, sighs. "Then do something about it."

And Sunghoon snaps. His head jerks up, eyes blazing with a fury so raw it makes Jay recoil. "Like what, Jay? Call the cops? Tell them some girl looks at me too much? Tell them I feel like I'm losing my mind?" His voice drops to a whisper, venomous. "No one cares."

Jay says nothing. What is there to say?

⸻

That night, Sunghoon locks his door, closes his blinds, checks every window twice. And still — still — he can feel you. Out there. Watching.

He sits on the floor of his room, back against his bed, breathing ragged, head in his hands. His heart races, skin cold with sweat. He hates you. He hates the way you've invaded his life, his mind, his dreams.

But in the silence, in the dark, with no one left to turn to — he feels it: that sick, twisting need for attention. Even yours.

Because hate is all he has left. And hate means he's not alone.

Sunghoon's body betrays him before his mind even catches up. It happens on a night when the air is thick and heavy, the sky a bruised purple as dusk bleeds into night. He walks alone across campus, the path nearly deserted, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, head low. He tells himself he's just clearing his head, just moving because sitting in his room had started to feel like being buried alive. But the truth is — he knows you're near. He can feel you, the way the air shifts when you're watching. And somewhere in that fractured, exhausted mind of his, he wants you to see him.

Your footsteps are soundless, your shadow a ghost trailing him as he cuts through the quad, past the empty benches and shuttered kiosks. He doesn't turn around, but his pace slows. His shoulders drop just slightly. A silent surrender. He hates it. He hates you. He hates himself most of all.

And then — he stops. Right at the edge of the quad where the lamplight fades into deeper dark, where no one will see, no one will hear. He stands there, fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard. And he says it. Voice low, raw, shaking with disgust:

"Come on. I know you're there."

The words hang in the air, daring you.

You step from the shadows slowly, deliberate, letting him see you fully — the gleam of your eyes, the curve of your mouth, the hunger you don't bother to hide. His breath stutters. He hates himself for the way his pulse spikes, for the way his skin prickles under your gaze.

"Sunghoon," you say, soft as silk, tasting his name on your tongue.

"Don't—" His voice cracks. He backs up a step, but there's nowhere to go. The wall behind him is cold concrete. His spine meets it with a thud.

You stop inches from him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you, smell the faint trace of vanilla that clings to your skin. His eyes are wide, furious, terrified. But he doesn't move.

"You don't have to run," you murmur, fingers lifting — slow, giving him every chance to stop you — to brush the hair from his forehead. He shudders.

"I said don't—" But his voice is weak now. Hollow.

You see it in his eyes: that flicker, that moment where the line blurs — where hate and something darker, needier, twist together so tightly he can't tell them apart.

You don't kiss him. Not yet. But you lean in, your breath warm against his ear, and whisper:

"Look at you. All alone. All mine."

A sound escapes him — half a gasp, half a sob. His fists unclench, fingers trembling at his sides. He hates himself for it. Hates that his body, his broken, exhausted body, aches for something — anything — even this.

And then he shoves past you, stumbling into the dark, fleeing like his life depends on it.

You let him go. Because you know. The first crack has formed. And it's only a matter of time before he shatters.

⸻

Later that night, Sunghoon curls on his bed, heart racing, skin burning where your breath had touched him. He buries his face in his pillow, fists pressed to his temples, and lets himself shake apart in the dark.

He hates you.

God help him, he hates himself more.

It happens when he's at his weakest. When his mind is frayed to threads, his body worn thin from sleepless nights, from days spent looking over his shoulder, from the weight of being hated and hunted and completely alone. The night air is cold, but he doesn't feel it anymore. He walks because he has to — because staying in his room feels like suffocating, and there's nowhere left that feels safe anyway. His feet take him to the edge of campus, to the forgotten places where the security lights don't reach, where the trees grow too thick and the paths crack beneath the weight of roots.

And you're there.

You always are.

He stops when he feels you watching, his breath clouding in the air. His heart pounds so loud he's sure you can hear it. His fists clench at his sides, but he doesn't move. Can't move.

"Just go away," he rasps, voice rough with exhaustion, with misery. But he doesn't run.

And that's all the invitation you need.

You step out of the dark, slow and silent, the click of your boots against the cracked path the only sound in the night besides his breath. His back hits a tree as he tries to retreat, but there's nowhere left to go.

You stop in front of him, so close he can't ignore the heat of your body, the way your scent wraps around him, dizzying. His chest rises and falls too fast, panic and adrenaline and something else burning through him.

"I hate you," he whispers, but it's shaky, broken. His eyes glisten in the moonlight, wide and wild.

"I know," you murmur, voice like velvet. "And you're mine anyway."

Your hand lifts — slow, deliberate, giving him every chance to fight — and curls in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. His breath catches, his head tipping back against the rough bark, exposing his throat.

"Don't," he says, but it's weak, a plea he doesn't even believe.

And then you kiss him.

It's not soft. Not sweet. Your mouth crashes into his with a hunger that steals his breath, that drags a sound from deep in his chest — part gasp, part moan, part sob. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to push you away, but they don't. They stay there, useless, trembling.

You bite his lower lip, not enough to break skin, just enough to make him whimper. His body jerks beneath yours, but he doesn't stop you. His mouth opens under yours, desperate for air, for escape, for more.

Your tongue slides against his, and he shudders, a broken noise spilling from him as his knees go weak.

You press him harder against the tree, one hand still tangled in his hair, the other sliding up under his hoodie, fingers tracing the curve of his waist, the dip of his hip bone. His skin is burning, fever-warm, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

"Please—" he whispers, but he doesn't even know what he's begging for. For you to stop. For you not to. For something, anything, to break the spiral he's falling into.

You pull back just enough to see him — his lips swollen, wet, his eyes glassy with shame and need. His chest heaves, and a whimper escapes him as you lean in again, mouth at his jaw, at his throat, kissing, biting, leaving marks he'll feel for days.

"Look at you," you breathe against his skin. "So easy. So mine."

And he sobs — a sound raw and small, his head turning away as if he can hide from you, from himself. But he doesn't move.

You grip his jaw, force him to look at you. His eyes are shining with tears he refuses to let fall, his lip trembling.

"Open your mouth," you command, voice low, dangerous.

He shakes his head once, but his lips part anyway, helpless, broken.

And you spit — slow, deliberate — into his mouth.

His eyes flutter shut, a whimper escaping him as he swallows without thinking, too far gone to fight.

"Good boy," you croon, and his whole body shudders at the praise, at the humiliation, at the truth of it.

Your fingers slip into his mouth next, pushing past those bruised lips, sliding over his tongue. He sucks without meaning to, shame and desperation mingling as his breath hitches, as his hands finally lift — not to push you away, but to grip your sleeves like he's drowning and you're the only thing keeping him afloat.

You pull your fingers free, slow, watching the trail of spit that stretches between you. His knees buckle, and you press your thigh between his, holding him up, making him feel every inch of your control.

And then, when he's trembling, when his breath is nothing but soft, broken gasps, you murmur against his ear:

"Say it. Say you're mine."

"I hate you," he whispers, but his voice is wrecked, his body betraying him with every shiver, every tremble, every desperate clench of his fingers in your clothes.

And you smile. Because that's close enough for now.

The air is thick, damp with the promise of rain, but neither of you notices. The world has shrunk to this moment — to the press of your body against his, to the sound of his breath stuttering in the dark, to the trembling of his hands where they clutch at your sleeves like a man on the edge of drowning. His back is still pressed to the tree, rough bark biting through the fabric of his hoodie. His head tips back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, trying to hold on to what little defiance he has left.

But his body is betraying him, second by second.

You feel it in the way his hips twitch against your thigh, desperate for friction he's too ashamed to seek. You hear it in the soft, broken sounds that fall from his lips — whimpers, gasps, the shaky breaths of someone lost in a storm they can't escape.

You don't give him time to think.

Your hand tangles in his hair, tight at the roots, yanking his head down so his mouth meets yours again. This time there's no hesitation — your kiss is brutal, consuming, stealing the breath from his lungs. He groans into your mouth, a helpless, needy sound that he hates himself for making. His lips are swollen, wet from spit and tears he won't let fall.

You bite at his bottom lip, harder than before, and he jerks, a muffled cry escaping as his fingers clutch you tighter. His hips roll against your thigh, seeking relief, friction, anything — and you give it to him just enough to make it worse, grinding your thigh against the hard line of him through his jeans, making him gasp and sob all at once.

"Please," he chokes out, voice wrecked, but even he doesn't know what he's begging for. For you to stop. For you not to. For the shame to end. For it to consume him completely.

You don't stop.

Your free hand slides between you, fingers working at his fly, slow and deliberate, making him feel every second of it. His whole body shakes, his breath coming in short, desperate pants as he realizes what you're doing — what he's letting you do.

"No," he whispers, but it's weak, a protest in name only.

"Yes," you hiss, voice low and dark, your breath hot against his ear. "Mine. All fucking mine."

You free him from his jeans, your hand wrapping around him firm, unyielding. His head snaps back against the tree, a choked moan tearing from his throat as his hips buck into your grip before he can stop himself.

"Fuck—" The word breaks on his lips, shame and pleasure colliding, leaving him raw and ruined.

You stroke him slow at first, savoring the way he shudders, the way his thighs tremble against yours, the way his hands — god, his hands — shake as they cling to you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

The sounds he makes are obscene, desperate. Soft, broken gasps. Whimpers that hitch in his throat. The wet, slick slide of your hand over him fills the air, mingling with the ragged rhythm of his breath.

And then you tighten your grip, twist your wrist just enough to make him sob, to make his knees buckle. You press him harder to the tree, your body the only thing keeping him upright as he falls apart in your hands.

"Look at you," you snarl against his throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, to make him cry out. "Fucking pathetic. Crying for me. You love this. Say it."

He shakes his head, tears spilling now, breathless sobs breaking free. "I hate you— I hate you—"

But his hips are moving, fucking into your hand like he can't help it, like his body belongs to you no matter what his mouth says.

You let go of his hair, your hand sliding down to his throat, fingers pressing just enough to steal his breath, to make his eyes go wide, his mouth fall open in a silent, broken moan.

"You're mine," you growl, your hand working him faster now, rough, relentless. "Say it. Fucking say it."

He chokes on a sob, on his own shame, his body trembling so hard he can barely stand. His hands claw at your back, useless, desperate.

"Mine," you snarl again, tightening your grip on his throat just a little more, just enough to make his world narrow to the feel of you, the sound of you, the absolute, inescapable fact of you.

And finally — finally — he breaks.

"Yours," he gasps, voice wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Yours, yours, yours—"

You ease your grip on his throat, just enough to let him breathe again, to let him sob out the sounds you've stolen from him.

"Good boy," you hiss, biting his ear, your hand still stroking him, faster, rougher, until he's shaking, ruined, begging without words, just broken noises and the frantic thrust of his hips.

And then you stop.

His whole body jerks, a strangled cry ripping from him as he realizes you've denied him at the edge, left him trembling, aching, desperate.

"Thank me," you demand, your breath hot against his cheek, your hand still wrapped around him, holding him right there at the brink.

He sobs, wrecked, his pride shattered.

"Thank you," he gasps, over and over, voice hoarse, shaking. "Thank you, thank you—"

And you smile, slow and wicked, because he's yours now. Completely.

Sunghoon can't stop shaking. His chest heaves, ragged breath after ragged breath filling the silent dark, each inhale shallow, desperate, like he's struggling to keep from falling apart entirely. His jeans hang half-open on his hips, his thighs trembling with exhaustion, with shame, with the raw, unrelenting need that's eaten him alive. His head is bowed, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, his tear-streaked face hidden from you. But you don't need to see it. You can feel it — the weight of his surrender, the way his body leans into yours because it has nowhere else to go, because the only thing keeping him upright is your grip on him.

And you're not done.

You push him down — slow, relentless — until he slides to his knees on the cold, cracked path. He doesn't fight you. His hands drop to his sides, fingers limp, useless, as he stares at the ground, lips parted, breath shaky and broken. His pride, his defiance, his hate — all cracked open now, laid bare beneath your hands.

You stand over him, looking down at the boy who thought he was untouchable, watching him fall apart piece by piece. His eyes flick up once, wide and glistening, and the sound that escapes him when he meets your gaze is soft, wrecked, full of a shame so deep it cuts him to the bone.

And you take your time.

Your hand threads through his hair again, gripping tight at the roots, yanking his head back so he's forced to look at you. His throat arches, pale and vulnerable in the moonlight, his breath coming in little gasps, little sobs that he tries to swallow down.

"You begged for me," you murmur, voice low and dark, every word wrapping around him like chains. "You're going to remember this. Every fucking second."

And then you lower yourself onto him.

Your thighs frame his face, your heat and scent overwhelming him, consuming him. He lets out a sound — half whimper, half moan — his hands lifting, hovering uselessly as if he wants to push you away but can't, as if the part of him that still wants to fight is drowning beneath the weight of his need.

"Look at you," you snarl, grinding down just enough to make him gasp, to make him sob, his body shaking beneath you. "On your knees for me. Just like you were meant to be."

His lips tremble, his breath hot and ragged against you, his face burning with humiliation. But when you shift, pressing down harder, forcing him to take more, his mouth opens without him even meaning to, desperate for air, for you, for anything to fill the emptiness you've carved into him.

And you give it to him.

Your hand stays tangled in his hair, holding him where you want him, using him, grinding against him slow at first, making him feel every second of it. His breath is wet against you, shaky gasps that turn into soft, broken moans as he loses himself, as his hands fall to his sides, as he gives up pretending he can fight this.

You ride his face like you own him, like he's nothing but yours to use, and the sounds he makes — god, the sounds — they're wrecked, desperate, needy in ways that make his shame burn brighter with every breath. His knees dig into the cracked path, his fingers curling into fists against the dirt, his body trembling with the effort of holding on, of surviving the storm you've made of him.

"Pathetic," you hiss, your voice sharp, cutting, as you pull his hair tighter, making him gasp, making him sob. "Crying for it like a little bitch. You love this. Say it."

But he can't. His voice is gone, lost beneath your weight, beneath his tears, beneath the ruin of who he used to be.

You don't stop.

Your free hand slides down between you, finding him still hard, still aching, still desperate. He sobs when you touch him, his hips jerking up into your hand without thinking, without control, his body betraying him in the worst, most beautiful way.

"Please," he manages to gasp out, voice hoarse, wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, I can't— I can't—"

But you don't show mercy.

You work him with your hand, rough, relentless, stroking him to the edge again, holding him there, making him beg with every sob, every broken breath, every trembling thrust of his hips.

"Say it," you growl, your grip tightening, your body grinding against his face, using him, breaking him. "Say you're mine. Say it."

He shatters.

"I'm yours!" he cries, voice shaking, tears falling fast now, his whole body trembling beneath you. "I'm yours, please, please—"

And you don't stop.

You push him past the edge, into ruin, into overstimulation so raw he sobs with it, his breath hitching, his body shaking apart in your hands. His hips stutter, helpless, as you stroke him through it, as you use him until he's spent, until he's nothing but wreckage beneath you.

His hands lift, weak, trembling, as if to beg you to stop, but he can't form the words anymore. All that's left is the sound of his sobs, the tremble of his breath, the wreck of him in your hands.

And finally — finally — you ease your grip, your touch gentling, your body stilling.

He collapses forward, forehead to the ground, breath coming in soft, broken gasps, tears falling into the dirt. His body is limp, ruined, his pride shattered beyond repair.

And you crouch beside him, fingers stroking his hair, soft now, soothing.

"Good boy," you murmur, and he sobs, the sound raw, small, but full of something that sounds far too much like relief.

Because he's yours now. Completely.

________

He lies beneath you, wrecked. His chest rises and falls in sharp, broken gasps, the skin of his throat shining with sweat, tears, and the faint sheen of spit where your hand had gripped him, where your mouth had claimed him, where he'd begged and sobbed and called himself yours. His jeans are down past his knees now, his thighs trembling from the overstimulation you'd dragged him through. His cock twitches, sensitive, aching, flushed dark and wet at the tip from everything you've done — and everything you're about to do.

And you — god, you're no better. Your breath is ragged, your body burning with the rush of it all, your own need clawing at you from the inside. You stare down at him, chest heaving, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing him too hard, biting him too much. There's no control left in you — not the kind that hides behind smirks and slow, deliberate moves. You want him. You want him ruined completely. And you want him inside.

He looks up at you — wide-eyed, tear-streaked, still gasping for breath — and the sound that escapes him when he sees your face is small, soft, shocked. Because he's never seen you like this. Your pupils blown wide, your mouth parted, your hips grinding down against him like you need him in ways you've never let show.

And he moans, brokenly, because for the first time, he sees you lost in it — cockdrunk before he's even inside.

"Please," he whispers, voice wrecked. His hips lift, desperate, helpless, the last of his pride gone. "Please, let me— let me—"

You reach down, wrap your hand around him, feel the way he jerks at the contact, too sensitive, too eager, too fucking desperate. You guide him to you, your cunt dripping, hot, aching for him, and when you sink down — slow at first, making him feel every fucking inch — the sound he makes is almost a sob.

"Fuck— f-fuck," he gasps, his head tipping back against the ground, fingers clawing at the dirt, at nothing.

You don't give him time to adjust. The second he's fully seated inside you, you start to move — rough, relentless, grinding down hard enough to make him cry out, hard enough that the slap of skin on skin echoes in the empty night.

"Pathetic," you snarl, riding him like you're trying to break him apart, your nails digging into his chest, leaving scratches he'll see for days. "Look at you. Letting me use you. Letting me fucking ruin you."

He whimpers beneath you, tears streaking his cheeks, his hands gripping your thighs, trying to ground himself, trying not to fall apart completely. But it's useless. His hips buck up to meet yours, chasing the friction, chasing the heat, chasing the one thing that makes the emptiness stop.

"Say it," you growl, leaning down, your mouth at his ear, breath hot and ragged. "Say you want to fill me. Say you want to fucking breed me."

And he breaks.

"I want to— I want to—" His voice cracks, his hips stutter up into yours, his cock throbbing inside you. "I want to breed you, I want to fill you up, fuck— please, let me, please—"

You laugh — breathless, wild — because he means it. God, he means it. His eyes are wide, glassy, full of shame and need so raw it burns.

"Good boy," you hiss, riding him harder, rougher, your hands in his hair, pulling, yanking, making him cry out as your cunt clenches around him, as you lose yourself in the way he stretches you, fills you, wrecks you.

And it hits you, hard — the way he feels, the way he sounds, the way his cock hits that spot that makes your mind go blank.

Your rhythm falters. Your body trembles. Your moans get louder, messier, no longer the controlled, cruel sounds of someone in charge, but desperate, needy, cockdrunk noises you can't stop.

His eyes widen.

Because he sees it.

Sees the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes go unfocused, the way you ride him like you can't get enough, like he's the only thing that matters.

And something snaps in him.

His hands grip your hips hard, hard, fingers digging in like he's holding on for dear life — or like he's trying to take control. His hips slam up into yours, rough, brutal thrusts that make you gasp, make you moan louder, make you claw at his chest for balance as he fucks up into you like he means to own you.

"You like that?" he pants, voice wrecked but sharper now, darker. "You like my cock, huh? Look at you. Fucking cockdrunk on me."

You try to snarl back, to take it from him, but his thrusts are relentless now, bruising, hard enough to make you see stars, to make your body shake, to make your moans break apart into wrecked, helpless cries.

"Say it," he growls, fucking into you like a man possessed, like a man who's finally tasted power and can't let it go. "Say you want me to fill you. Say you want me to breed you."

And you do. God help you, you do.

"Fuck— fill me," you gasp, your head falling back, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Breed me, Sunghoon. Fucking breed me."

And that's it. That's what breaks him.

His hips stutter, his cock throbs deep inside you, and he comes with a cry that's half a sob, half a snarl, emptying himself inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of heat as he clutches you to him like he never wants to let go.

And you break too.

The feel of him, the heat of him, the way he fills you — it pushes you over the edge, your body shaking, your cunt clenching around him, milking him for every last drop as you cry out, as you fall apart completely, as the world narrows to nothing but him, him, him.

The night is silent again when it's done, except for the sound of your gasps, his broken breath, the thrum of your pulse in your ears.

You collapse against him, spent, wrecked, claimed and claiming.

And he holds you.

______

The air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and ruin. Your thighs are trembling, your cunt still pulsing around nothing, aching, gaping, leaking his cum — hot and thick, dripping out of you in slow, obscene trails that slide down over your folds, your inner thighs, onto his lap, onto the cold, dirty ground beneath. The night air hits your slick skin and makes you shiver, but the fire burning between you is hotter than anything the breeze could hope to cool.

Your stomach is tight, a little swollen, filled with the weight of what he's done to you, what he's poured into you, what he's claimed. You can feel it — the fullness, the mess, the heat — and for a moment, just a moment, you're stunned.

Because Sunghoon is still beneath you, chest heaving, face flushed and damp, hair a wild mess, but his hands... his hands are gripping your hips like he owns you. Like he means to keep you exactly where you are. And his eyes — god, his eyes — no longer wide with fear, no longer glassy with shame. They're dark now. Sharp. Watching you.

Your pulse spikes, instinct snapping back. You can't let this happen.

You brace yourself, fingers digging into his chest, trying to reclaim the control that slipped for just a breath too long. Your mouth curves into a sneer, words spilling out rough, filthy, desperate to remind him who he is, what he is.

"Pathetic little thing," you hiss, grinding your hips just enough to make his overstimulated cock twitch inside you, to make him whimper — but the sound is different now. Not just helpless, but... hungry. "Crying for me, begging to breed me like a bitch in heat. You're mine. You're nothing without me."

His lip quivers — just for a second. His eyes shine again, tears welling, and for a heartbeat you think you've won. His breath catches, his fingers flex on your hips, his body trembling beneath yours like before.

But then — god, then — he smirks.

It's small at first, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it spreads. Slow. Dark. His tears spill anyway, but his eyes — they blaze now, sharp and sure, as his smirk grows.

"Yours?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked, but steady now. Dangerous. "Baby, you don't even know what you look like right now."

And before you can answer, before you can claw it back — he moves.

He flips you.

One hard yank of your hips, one shift of his weight, and you're on your stomach, the cold dirt biting your skin, rough ground scraping your thighs. His body is over you, against you, his chest to your back, his breath hot against your ear as he presses you down, forces you to feel the grit of the earth beneath you, the weight of him above.

"Thought you were in charge?" he pants, fingers sliding between your thighs, finding your ruined, dripping cunt, smearing his cum where it leaks out of you, pushing it back in with two fingers, slow and deep.

You gasp, body jerking, shame burning through you at the sound — that wet, slick squelch as he fucks his cum back into you, as his breath hitches at how tight you still are around him even now.

"You're dripping for me," he snarls, his fingers curling, finding that spot inside you that makes your legs shake, that makes you whimper despite yourself. "So cockdrunk you can't even talk anymore. Where'd your filthy mouth go, huh? Say something. Say anything."

But you can't. Your cheek is pressed to the dirt, your body trembling beneath him as his fingers work you open again, relentless, merciless, making you feel everything. His cum leaks around his fingers, spills down to the ground beneath, every thrust of his hand forcing more of it out, more of it back in, more of it everywhere.

"Please," you gasp finally, voice shaking, broken by the stretch, the heat, the humiliation.

"Please what?" he taunts, his free hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down. His hips grind against your ass, his cock hard again already, slick and aching, smearing mess across your skin. "Tell me. Beg for it. Beg for my cock."

You shake your head, trying to fight, trying to hold on — but his fingers curl just right, his cock grinds against you just right, and you sob, wrecked.

"Please, Sunghoon," you whisper, tears hot against your cheeks, voice muffled against the dirt. "Please— fuck me. Fill me. I need it."

He groans — raw, desperate — because hearing you say it, hearing the need in your voice, hearing the way you break for him, it shatters the last of his restraint.

He yanks his fingers out, grabs your hips, lines himself up, and thrusts in — hard, brutal, burying himself to the hilt in one rough, claiming stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs.

The sound you make is wrecked — a gasp, a sob, a moan, all tangled together.

And he doesn't stop.

His thrusts are brutal now, the slap of his hips against your ass loud in the night, the wet, messy squelch of his cock driving into you over and over filling the air. His hands grip your hips so tight you'll feel the bruises for days. His breath is ragged, filthy words spilling out between thrusts.

"Take it. You fucking take it. God, you're so tight, so messy, so fucking perfect—"

Your body rocks beneath him, helpless under the force of him, under the ruin of him. Your moans are high, desperate, broken — no control left, no plan, just pure, raw need.

"You want me to fill you again?" he growls, pounding into you harder, faster, relentless. "Want me to breed you for real this time? Fuck it so deep you can't think straight?"

"Yes," you sob, shameless now, lost to it. "Yes, please, please—"

His hips stutter, cock throbbing inside you, and he snarls, voice low and wrecked. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours!" you cry, nails clawing at the dirt, body shaking apart under him. "Yours, yours, yours—"

And he gives it to you.

His cock pulses deep inside, filling you again, harder, messier than before, so much it leaks out around him with every brutal thrust, dripping down your thighs, onto the filthy ground.

He fucks you through it, through the orgasm that rips you apart, through the aftershocks that leave you trembling, sobbing, ruined beneath him.

And when it's done — when the night is silent but for your gasps, his breath against your neck, the slow, obscene drip of cum from between your legs — he leans down, mouth at your ear.

"Mine," he whispers, and you sob, wrecked, because he's right.

You are.

_______

The world is still.

Your body is sprawled beneath him, skin scraped raw from the rough ground, knees bruised from where the dirt and gravel bit into them. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, overstimulation, and the weight of what just happened. His cum leaks from you in slow, messy drips, warm and thick between your thighs, pooling beneath you in the dirt, mixing with the sweat and spit and tears that stain your skin.

Sunghoon stays over you for a long moment, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot against your ear, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly, twitching with aftershocks that make both of you flinch. His hands—those same hands that had gripped you so hard they'll leave bruises—now shake as they slide up your sides, gentle, almost hesitant, as if he can't believe what he's done.

The night air is cool, brushing over your sweat-slick skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, your spine, the backs of your thighs. But neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks. The storm has passed, but the silence it leaves behind is heavy. Suffocating.

And then he shifts. Slowly, carefully, as if you might shatter if he moves too fast. He pulls out of you, and the loss of him makes you gasp, your body clenching down around nothing, empty and aching, the mess of him spilling out of you in an obscene, wet rush that splatters onto the ground beneath.

Sunghoon's hands linger at your hips, fingers trembling as they trace the marks he left there. His breathing is uneven, like he doesn't know how to calm himself down, like he's still caught somewhere between triumph and horror at what just happened.

You don't speak. You can't. Your lips are swollen, your throat raw from the sounds he dragged out of you, from the begging, the sobbing, the pleading that still rings in your ears.

And he... god, he looks down at you, at the wreck of you beneath him, and something shifts behind his eyes. That sharp, dangerous hunger is still there — but beneath it now, there's something else. Something softer. Something that terrifies him more than anything that came before.

His hands lift from your hips, hover over your back, your shoulders, like he wants to touch you, soothe you, but doesn't know how.

"Fuck," he whispers, voice hoarse, wrecked. "What... what did we do?"

You don't answer. You just breathe, feeling the dirt beneath your cheek, the cooling air against your skin, the burn of him still inside you, even though he's gone.

Sunghoon kneels back, staring at you like he doesn't know if he should run or stay, like he's caught between guilt and the desperate, gnawing need to do it all over again. His hands scrub over his face, his hair, trembling, as if trying to erase the feel of you, the sound of you, the taste of the night.

But he can't.

Because you're there, ruined and perfect, proof of everything he's done, everything he's become.

Slowly, you push yourself up onto your hands and knees, your body sore, spent, aching. You glance back at him, your hair wild around your face, your lips parted, your eyes still dark with the haze of everything he gave you.

And when your gaze meets his, the storm starts to build again.

Because nothing is settled.

Because nothing is over.

Because you're his. And he's yours. And neither of you knows what that means anymore.

_______

WOAH THAT WASS LONG ANYWAYS PLS GIVE A FEEDBACK AND COMMENT THANK YOU!!!

IK THIS WAS VERY DARK SO HERES A FLUFF OF SUNGHOON TO BALANCE OUT THE GUILT 😭😭😭😭

“You’re not scared of me, are you? After everything I’ve done for you?”

San: is the emotional rollercoaster yandere. One second, he’s smiling sweetly with tears in his eyes; the next, he’s gripping your jaw so hard it bruises. His obsession is explosive—he feels everything too deeply. He doesn’t want to love you… he wants to consume you. And if he can’t have your love, he’ll settle for your fear. You’ll never know what you’re walking into. He’ll cry in your lap one night, begging you never to leave, and the next day, he’s glaring at your phone like it personally betrayed him. He becomes addicted to every detail about you—your scent, the rhythm of your breathing, the sounds you make when you sleep. He doesn’t just love you—he memorizes you. You so much as smile at someone else and he’s immediately clinging to you, overly touchy, overly loud, saying things like, “Tell them you're taken. Say it. Right now.” He doesn’t just want your body—he wants proof that you need him. He’ll cry, shake, break things—then whisper, “You’re the only one who can calm me down. You wouldn’t leave me like this… would you?” You will pay for ghosting him—even for a few hours. Whether it’s your broken phone or a locked door, he’ll find a way in. Anyone touching you sets him off. Doesn’t matter the intent. He’s possessive to the point of paranoia—and he’ll remind you of it with bruising kisses and breathless threats.

San is relentless. Once he's touching you, there's no escape. He’s the type to hold your hips down, keep eye contact, and whisper things like “I want you to remember exactly who you belong to.” He takes your reactions personally. Every gasp, every shiver, every scratch of your nails across his back—it fuels him. You’re not just his obsession; you’re his addiction. He drags things out just to watch you squirm. Teasing kisses on your neck while pinning your wrists above your head. A low, smug voice in your ear: “Tell me how much you need me. Beg for my cock, baby.” He kisses you hard, with a hand locked in your hair and a smirk pressed to your lips. He wants you breathless. Wants you ruined and needing. If someone flirted with you earlier, he’ll make sure you feel how mad he is. Gripping your throat tightly as he stops thrusting moments before you orgasm for the sixth time that night. “Only I get to see you like this. Only me.” 

“I’d rather destroy everything than let someone else have you.”

Mingi: is a ticking time bomb. Tall, warm, goofy Mingi—until he feels threatened. Then everything changes. His obsession builds quietly until it erupts. He’s physical, impulsive, and terrifyingly sincere. He doesn’t want to scare you—but if that’s the only way to keep you close, he’ll do it. And then apologize while still holding you too tight. He walks you everywhere. Keeps a knife in his pocket. Offers to fight anyone who makes you uncomfortable—even if they didn’t mean to. “They looked at you wrong. Why aren’t you upset?” He breaks things. Walls. Glass. Your things. When he’s angry or scared you’ll leave, he becomes destructive. He never touches you in that state—but the damage is done. You see what he’s capable of. He’s contradictory. He’ll grip your wrists and say, “You’re mine. You can’t leave,” but seconds later he’s on his knees, “Please don’t go. I’ll do better. I promise.” The emotional whiplash is dizzying. He can’t fall asleep unless he’s holding you. Arms like chains, his breath uneven, muttering in his sleep about you leaving him. If he wakes up and you’re not there? He panics. Fully. Even small lies break something in him. He’ll get quiet, then furious, then desperate to “earn your honesty” again. It pisses him off to see you looking afraid of him. It makes him snap harder—“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the bad guy. I’m not!” He’ll try to fix it by holding you tighter. Kissing you harder.

Mingi’s huge frame means he engulfs you—holding you down, whispering that you’re his and no one else is allowed to touch. He shakes while touching you, overwhelmed by how much he wants you. It’s intoxicating. He needs constant reassurance even while dominating you—“You still love me, right? Say it again.” When emotions are high—fighting, jealousy, or fear—he gets possessively handsy. Slams you against the wall, breath ragged, voice low. “Don’t push me away. You’re mine.” Bites, scratches, love bruises, it doesn’t matter. He wants everyone to see you the next day and know. He doesn’t ask permission—he needs to leave a trail. His teeth dig deep into your shoulder as he pushes inside, so harshly he’s drawn blood a few times. His tongue runs over the bite and licks up the blood just to spit it into your mouth, watching as you swallow.  He loves the sounds you make when you lose control—especially if he’s the one who caused it. You cry his name, and he melts. Whispers, “You sound so pretty when you break for me. So pretty when I’ve fucked you dumb.” Afterwards, he wraps you in his arms like a cage. He breathes against your ear, murmuring things like, “No one gets to touch you. Not now. Not ever.” He’s shaking—but it’s not fear. It’s obsession.

“I can be cute, I can be sweet... but if someone so much as looks at you wrong? I’ll rip them apart.”

Wooyoung: is the unhinged firestorm yandere. At first, it’s all teasing and charm—clingy boyfriend energy turned up to ten. But when obsession sets in, the playfulness starts to feel unsettling. His love is loud, smothering, and laced with jealousy so intense it borders on violent. If someone flirts with you, he takes it personally. If you pull away, he sees it as betrayal. Constant touching—arms around your waist, hands on your thigh, lips on your neck in public. He needs people to know you’re taken. If someone stares, he’ll glare at them and say something possessive like, “Eyes off. She’s mine.” He wants you to say it. All the time. “Say you love me. Again. No, say it like you mean it.” He won’t stop until your voice breaks. He’ll be laughing one moment, and in your face the next if he thinks you're hiding something. “Who were you texting?” His jealousy burns fast and hot—and you never know what will set him off. He jokes about killing anyone who touches you, but his eyes don’t match his grin. “If someone ever tried to steal you… well, I’d look good in orange, right?” Don’t ever lie to him if you like going outside. The moment he catches you in a lie, he won’t let you leave. He keeps you under strict supervision in his apartment. “You wanna go outside? That’s too bad. You should’ve thought about that before you fucking lied about where you were. Now you’re gonna be lucky if you ever get to see the light of day again.”

Wooyoung is relentless—hands everywhere, lips everywhere, voice right in your ear. He needs to make you fall apart under him. Every time. He gets off on your reaction to him. He moans when you say his name, when you look desperate, when you try to squirm away from his grip. He wants you overwhelmed. That’s how he knows he has you. A hand sliding up your thigh under the table. Kissing your neck just a little too low in front of people. Whispering, “You’re lucky I let you wear that out. Actually… you’re lucky I let you out at all.” He doesn’t stop at one orgasm. He keeps going until your body shakes and your voice cracks, holding you down and laughing softly when you cry out. “There’s my good little toy. Knew you could take it.” He leaves marks on purpose. On your neck, your chest, your inner thighs. Big ones. Bruises and teeth. He wants people to stare and wonder. It turns him on.

“You can fight me. Scream, cry, beg. It won’t matter. I’m not letting you go.”

Jongho: is the stoic, calculating yandere. He doesn’t explode. He doesn’t cry. He waits. And that’s what makes him terrifying. He watches everything—your routine, your habits, your tells. When he decides he wants you, that’s it. You’re his. You just haven’t figured it out yet. He handles everything—your schedule, who you see, where you go. It’s subtle at first, like protecting you. Then you realize you haven’t made a decision on your own in days. He uses his strength as silent intimidation. Standing in your path. Caging you against the wall with a stare. Holding you still with just one hand and whispering, “Don’t make me restrain you.” He’s not the type to say “I love you” a hundred times a day. But he will say, dead serious, “You belong to me.” And he means it—physically, emotionally, permanently. He doesn’t yell when he’s angry. He gets calm. Too calm. The kind of calm where the air goes still and you feel something bad is coming. That’s when he’s most dangerous. If you defy him or try to escape, he snaps—but quietly. He’ll find you. Bring you back. And next time, he’ll make sure you can’t leave again. 

“You don’t get to leave. You’re mine. Say it.”

Hongjoong: is the control freak yandere—sharp, dangerous, and charismatic. His obsession isn’t quiet. He wants to own you completely—your time, your choices, your identity. He’s deeply intelligent and manipulative, and he’ll make you believe that no one else will ever love you the way he does. You’re his masterpiece, and no one is allowed to touch what he’s created. He’ll have tabs on you 24/7—your social media, your texts, even your browser history. It won’t feel invasive until you realize he knows things you never told him. He’ll train you into dependence. First through gifts, then through guilt. “I do so much for you. Why are you always looking for a way out?” He makes your resistance feel like betrayal. His anger is like a coiled snake. He won’t yell—he’ll get quiet, his eyes going dark. He’ll stare at you too long. The silence becomes punishment, and when he speaks again, it feels like mercy. He likes physical reminders that you’re his—bruises, hickeys, your clothes smelling like him, your passwords shared with him. You’re not just loved—you’re owned. He hates when you disobey him. If he tells you to stay in and you go out? Expect consequences. He hates it even more if he finds out you are lying to him. He will always find out. And when he does, he won’t yell—he’ll sit you down and make you confess everything. Slowly. Deliberately. Every word sealing your fate. He is relatively good at controlling his anger—unless he sees or hears someone touching what’s his. He has no problem threatening people. “If you ever talk to them again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” You’ll never see that person again.

Hongjoong is intense, commanding, and calculated. He doesn’t just touch you—he studies your reactions, watches every breath, every twitch. His pleasure is in control. He has a habit of grabbing your chin or throat—not to hurt, but to remind you who’s in charge. Even his kisses feel like a warning: “You’re mine. Don’t forget it.” He’ll lean in behind you at a party, lips brushing your ear as he whispers exactly what he plans to do to you when you get home. You’ll blush; he’ll smirk. If you disobey him, even playfully, he’ll turn it into a game—but one he always wins. “Oh, so you like ignoring me now? Let’s see how long you can keep that up. How many times can I make you cum before you start begging for me to stop?” He hates when other people make you laugh. That’s supposed to be his. Expect him to get handsy, smug, or quietly terrifying right after. He’ll kiss you in front of them, fingers digging into your waist, murmuring, “You’re still thinking about me, right? Still thinking of how good I make you feel?” He hates when you act out in public, especially around his friends. He’ll stop everything he’s doing to bend you over his lap, pulling your pants down under your ass and spanking you until you start begging for mercy. “You wanted attention, right? Then take it.”

“If you loved me the way I love you, you'd never want to leave either.”

Seonghwa: is the silent storm type of yandere. On the surface, he’s tender, soft-spoken, and frighteningly composed—until something threatens his hold on you. Then the switch flips. His obsession stems from a need to protect and preserve you, like a beautiful porcelain doll in a locked glass case. He's convinced that the world is too cruel and unworthy of you. He has to keep you safe—even from yourself. He’ll slowly insert himself into every part of your life. You’ll start getting texts like “Don’t forget to eat,” or “Wear something warm today.” At first, it seemed sweet. But then it’s constant. You’ll find out he’s tracking your schedule down to the hour.  He doesn’t forbid you from seeing your friends—he just makes you feel guilty for it. A slight pout. A quiet, “It’s okay, I just missed you today, that’s all.” And somehow, you stop going out as much. He often speaks as if you’ve already agreed to be his. “One day, when we live together, I’ll cook for you every morning." You haven't said yes to any of this. But he speaks it into existence. He hoards little things you've touched—empty cups, used tissues, broken jewelry. But everything is always clean, pristine, and organized in a drawer. His obsession is clinical and methodical, even beautiful. He sees you as sacred. He can’t handle anyone flirting with you. He won't make a scene—he’ll smile politely, but that person will be out of your life within days. Fired, blocked, scared off. What really sets him off, though, is you pulling away. If you avoid him or set boundaries, he'll double down, refusing to back off. He’ll start crying, not out of sadness but frustration. “Why are you punishing me for loving you so much?”

Seonghwa is slow, deliberate, and overwhelming in his affection. His touches are gentle, but the intensity behind them is anything but. He has a habit of cupping your jaw when you speak—forcing eye contact, making you focus only on him. It’s possessive, but wrapped in tenderness. He’s absolutely filthy during sex, calling you crude names as he spits in your mouth. Slapping your pussy any time you whine. You know better than to complain about anything he gives you, after all—he knows what’s best for you. He loves to praise and degrade you at the same time. He’ll whisper things like, “You’re such a good whore for me. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made for taking my cock like a filthy slut?” His goal is to make you feel both cherished and owned. He absolutely adores taking care of you after he ruins you. Running you a bath, brushing your hair, feeding you by hand. It’s his way of reasserting control while pretending it’s all for your sake.

“Why would you need anyone else when I’m right here? I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

Yunho: is the delusional sweetheart yandere. He doesn’t see himself as dangerous—he sees himself as your protector, your comfort, your home. But his possessiveness runs deep. He convinces himself that keeping you close is love—even if it means hurting others. Even if it means hurting you. He’ll do it with a smile and say it’s for your own good. He cries easily, but not in a healthy way. If you pull away, he gets devastated, making you feel like you broke him. “Do you not love me anymore? I was trying so hard…” You end up comforting him after he crosses your boundaries. He smothers you with affection. Constant hugs, touches, holding your hand until your fingers hurt. He loves cuddling because he can wrap you up and keep you still. He treats you like a living teddy bear—something to be held and never let go. He asks you weird questions like, “Would you still love me if I did something bad?” or “If someone hurt me, would you protect me?” He wants you to prove your devotion the way he proves his. He’s slow to anger, but when he snaps, it’s terrifying. His size and strength turn him into a shield—or a weapon. If anyone talks badly about you or gets too close? He doesn’t even regret it. “They made you uncomfortable. I fixed it.” If you even think about ending things, he’ll become unrecognizable. If he finds out you are talking to another guy—even innocently. He’ll pretend it’s fine, but later you’ll find out that guy got fired, blocked, or mysteriously stopped showing up.

Yunho’s touches are cloyingly soft, but never timid. He worships your body, your voice, your reactions—each one is a sign that you still belong to him. He always wants to be close. Not just emotionally, but physically. He’ll spoon you so tightly at night you can barely move, burying his face in your neck and sighing like he’s finally alive again. He wraps himself around you like a second skin—arms around your waist, head in your lap, hands under your shirt just to feel your skin while you watch TV. It’s innocent… until it’s not. The moment his hands touch your skin he wants needs you. His hands finding their place around your tits as he whispers nasty praises in your ear. He kisses you like it’s your last day on earth—slow, deep, breathy. Sometimes mid-conversation. Sometimes mid-fight. “I hate it when you make me worry like that,” he’ll mutter, then crush his mouth to yours like he’s trying to taste your apology. The more you try to pull away or tease him, the more frantic he becomes. “You don’t want to leave, right? You’d never do that to me…” And when you finally give in, he treats it like a reward. He eats pussy like a man starved. He doesn’t care about getting you off, he doesn’t care if you’re sobbing from the overstimulation after his tongue’s already made you cum three times and there's still no sign of him stopping. He just can’t get enough of your taste, your scent, you. Practically making out with your pussy as he ruts his hips into the mattress below him. 

“You don’t need freedom. You need structure. And me.”

Yeosang: is the calculating, elegant yandere. Cold on the outside, obsessive underneath. His obsession is methodical—he’s a strategist, not a reactor. He won’t lash out. He’ll set traps. You won’t even realize how deep his hold on you runs until you’re already tangled. He doesn’t get jealous—because he’s already made sure you don’t have options. He always knows where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with. He won’t tell you how—but your schedule always coincidentally aligns with his. That job you applied for? Gone. That friend you trusted? Drifting away. He isolates you without ever raising his voice. He’ll make you question your own feelings. “You’re overreacting.” “I never said that.” “I’m doing this for you.” Until you start believing him. Until you don’t even trust your own instincts. He touches you only when he wants to, but when he does, it’s with intention. A hand on your neck when he walks past. A whisper so close you feel his breath on your ear. Every gesture is designed to make you feel small—and his. To the outside world, he’s the ideal partner. Polite, attentive, soft-spoken. No one would believe you if you said he was dangerous. And that’s exactly the point. If you challenge him, even once, he won’t yell. He’ll go quiet. Cold. And then something in your life will change. You won’t know it was him. But it always is. If you lie to him, he’ll already know. He gives you chances to confess. If you don’t? He makes sure you wish you had.

You should have listened to me. I told you not to walk home alone in the dark. And yet… here we are.

You know, you’re much more peaceful when you’re unconscious. You don’t have a chance to nag me all the time.

It’s not that I’m trying to be controlling. Not at all. I just worry, okay? 

I know it might be difficult for you to understand, but I do worry about you. I’m not always going to be around to protect you like tonight. I’m just lucky I decided to follow after you, even after we said goodnight.

I could sense them. I knew you were being followed by more than just one of them, and I couldn’t let them take advantage of you. I don’t care if we had all been out in a group to start, their intentions after we said goodbye were impure!

I see the way others look at you when you’re not paying attention. Really, it’s quite obvious, but you act like you don’t notice. Of course they’d look. They’d all be stupid not to chance a glance at the stunning beauty that lays before them. I want them to look, but only when you’re with me. Look, but never touch.

I just wish they’d leave you alone.

Can’t they understand that you’re mine?

Fucking posers. I should gouge all their eyes out for what they tried to do to you tonight. Even just thinking about it makes my blood boil and my feathers ruffle. Knowing you, you’ll probably brush it all off once you wake up, making every excuse you can for those other guys. Only I know the truth, and I don’t care if you believe me or not.

No, they weren’t ‘being nice’ and walking you home, they expected something. They always expect something. No, they also weren’t ‘keeping an eye out’ for you. I do that. They were stalking you! I hear them always whispering about that one guy asking you out, and I couldn’t have that! 

You understand, right? Why I had to split his head open like a watermelon? He could have taken you away from me, and I couldn’t have that. You mean too much to me…

Don’t worry, I’ll take you home. I’ll keep you safe. I’m the only one who can. The only one you should trust.

The moon is full tonight as the wind whips through my feathers. I thought taking you for a little flight would help soothe you after the trauma you’ve just endured. Despite you being unconscious, I feel like it’s helping. I’ve got you, and even in your sleep, you’ve got me. I will never let you fall, and besides, maybe if you wake up while we soar through the night sky, you’ll be less mad about what happened.

Not that you should be mad at all, but you always get upset at me when I stick up for you. Every time I step in when people make inappropriate comments, or I ‘accidentally’ trip someone that’s standing a little too close to you, you cuss me out. I can practically hear your voice in my head already yelling about how they were just being ‘friendly’.

‘Friendly’ my ass.

Good thing you’re asleep. That eye roll would have earned me a smack on my arm. Perhaps even a disappointed shake of your head, too.

You’re lucky I love you. I let you get away with so much shit I normally would never put up with. I suppose that’s what happens when you care about someone as much as I care about you…

I’ll never admit how much I enjoy it when you touch me, even when you playfully smack my arm, or the upside of my head. I’d rather receive one hundred- no, one thousand of those than see you even lay a finger on someone else that’s not me. If you thought I was violent tonight, you should see some of the corpses of the people who’ve touched you, especially without your permission. Certain people, like our close friends and your family, I can let slide. But nasty fuckers who think they have any sort of chance with you?

Never.

It’s pathetic how easily their flesh shreds beneath my claws. Honestly, I can’t believe any of them ever thought that they even had a chance with you. If they can’t save themselves, how are they ever going to protect you? Fucking pathetic, weak morsels that don’t deserve to even share the same air as you.

Of course, I’d never let you see that side of me. The one that’s covered in entrails and blood after disposing of the trash. You’d worry too much, and besides, I never want you to be scared of me. You have nothing to fear. Never from me. Not while I’m around. After all, everything I do, I do for you.

Really, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Say the word, even so much as imply you want something, and it’s yours. You are my one and only saving grace in this godforsaken world, and I will do everything in my power to see you smile. I will always be there to offer you a shoulder to cry on, and loving arms to embrace you when you need me. 

Nothing is off limits. I just want to make you happy.

I will make you happy. I know I will. Yet, you seem to brush off my advances every chance you get. What will it take for you to see how completely and utterly devoted I am to you? I would burn down entire cities, level the highest of mountains to the ground to prove myself to you. 

The impossible will become probable with me around. That’s my promise to you.

See! Even subconsciously you want to be close to me! Your grip just tightened on my back. You’re even nuzzling closer into my feathers!

…Either that, or you’re waking up.

Perhaps I should simply glide through the air now if that’s the case. Like I said, I don’t want to scare you.

Oh… it seems as though it was a false alarm. You’re still sleeping so soundly. As you should.

I’ve got you.

Are you dreaming of me? I always dream about you, so it’s only fair. I promised myself that I’d become the man of your dreams, but to think that might be literal is just… well, it only makes my affections for you grow. Let me protect you in your dreams just as well as I protect you in reality. Let my love wash over you so you feel it even when you’re away from me, deep within your own unconscious mind. Feel my devotion washing over you with every breath, and stay with me. Forevermore.

Perhaps now you’ll take me seriously. After you wake up, and calm down of course, I’ll tell you how I really feel. No more skirting around our feelings, and hoping you’ll understand why I do what I do. I need to be more forward, and finally tell you my everlasting love for you is real.

Thinking of it now… will you kiss me when I confess? Oh, gods… just thinking about the feel of your lips pressed against my own is making my head spin. Are they as soft as they look? Have you fantasized about mine as often as I’ve dreamt about yours? Do you also want my lips to caress every inch of your body when we’re alone? I swear nothing but the sweetest of praises will fall from my lips as I press them to your own, and all over your glorious body worthy of every piece of worship I plan to offer to you.

And worship you I shall.

There will be no part of you untouched by me. There is no part of you unloved by me. I plan to show you, to make you mine in every meaning of the sense, but only if you will allow me to do so. I only ever want to please you, to make you shake as you succumb to the deepest throws of pleasure, drowning you completely in ecstasy so you can no longer tell where you end and I begin. 

I was made to love you, and you were made to be loved by me.

Let me feel your nails digging into my back. Mark up my thighs which I know you adore. It’s cute to see you turn away shyly every time I catch you staring and admiring me. Though, you shouldn’t be ashamed, I admire you, too. Every chance I can get.

I always hear you joking about finding someone who will completely ravage you. Someone who will make you scream their name until the early hours of the morning. Someone to love you until you can’t take it anymore, to focus completely on you and you alone.

Well, Darling, I’m right here. Ready and eager whenever you are. You wouldn’t even have to ask, for I would fall to my knees to please you. Every. Single. Time.

Once you wake up, I’ll take you home. I just hope someday that home will be with me. A place to call our own. Where I am yours, and you are mine.

As it should be.

if you’d had trusted your gut feeling, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now. the knife was cool against your neck, your skin burning in comparison. you stayed still, silent as the intruder had instructed, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible so you don’t accidentally cut your own neck. his breath however was loud, almost laboured, sickeningly warm on your neck as he leant into your ear. you had to fight the shudder that rose through your body when his lips grazed your ear.

“i’ll slit your pretty neck if you scream.”

gulping, you hummed in quiet agreement, allowing him to push you forward until you were at the bottom of your bed. fearing the worst, you closed your eyes as he pushed you onto it, just hoping it would all be over soon. however, when nothing happened, you dared to pry one daring eye open. the intruder’s head was tilted to the side in confusion, mouth and nose covered by a mask. finally understanding, he chuckled and unhooked one side of his mask, pulling it off as he spoke.

“i might be a stalker, but I’m no rapist.”

it felt as if your eyes had doubled, no tripled, in size, eyes hurt as you stared at your stalker’s face. surprisingly, it was a very familiar one.

“it’s you… from the café!”

when your voice rose, the man darted forward, hand on your mouth as he pressed the knife to your neck again.

“last warning baby, keep your fuckin’ voice down.”

tears now wetting your cheeks, you nodded slowly, gritting your jaw as his gloved hand caressed your face, wiping your tears away. sighing in content, he moved a few stray hairs into place, twirling one around his finger before letting it bounce back into place. finally letting up, he pointed to the pile of clothes neatly folded on your desk chair, gesturing with his knife.

“get dressed.”

eyebrows furrowed, you approached the clothes slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements or noises. cold dread washed over you when you saw the semi-formal clothes, taking in his black slacks and dress shirt underneath his hoodie.

“why are you forcing me, mingi? I told you no-”

he paced forward, face now inches from yours, a stern expression on his face that he never showed you at the café. even when you’d turned mingi down, he gave you a small smile and thumbs up, seemingly disappointed but taking it fairly wrong.

how wrong you were.

“and now you’re gonna tell me yes. we’re gonna go to the fancy restaurant I’ve booked, have a lovely fuckin’ evening, and then we’ll see where it goes from there.”

your face darkening, a wave of confidence, or perhaps stupidity, washed over you.

“who says this is gonna go anywhere?”

mingi just laughed in an almost mocking fashion, holding up the knife and letting it glint in the moonlight.

“mr. knife says you might not have a choice in this, baby.”



YANDERE TAGLIST !!

@lee--felix @plutoneu @17caratdiamond @seonghwasslytherin @galaxybam2 @a1sh1teruu @greenymar @hijirikaww @soft-teddybear @xuxibelle @m4rsluv @a-soft-hornytiny @anowamij @xye-weirdo @owjohny @hobietheii @csngf @leo-seonghwa @shinestarhwaa @kyeomyun

TAGLIST FORM :: ✯

he was in pure disbelief at first

as one of the senior members of the hybrid community in your area, he had quite a few affiliations within it and recognised most hybrid’s scents

which was why he was so shocked to smell the notorious Lee Jeno all over his cute little bunny

Jeno was known far and wide for his promiscuity, leaving many hybrids of all types feeling empty and broken-hearted after he became bored

all that aside, it felt wrong on so many levels for a wolf to be preying on his sweet little bunny, especially with Jeno’s natural disposition to hunt you

so his gaze turned cold when you fidgeted uncomfortably, knowing Seonghwa could smell Jeno on you

Seonghwa’s fury began to kick in as your embarrassment made your head hang low, body shaking under his glowering. pacing to you, Seonghwa picked you up and took you to the bathroom, the action commanding, yet he still made sure to be careful with you. you shook in Seonghwa’s arms, holding on and whispering to him quietly, barely audible.

‘I told him no. He… he sniffed me quite a bit but he didn’t do anything.’

Seonghwa didn’t even look at you as he replied, jaw gritted yet tone of voice surprisingly calm.

‘If he did anything to you, he wouldn’t be around to gloat about it for long.’

the expression on Seonghwa’s face told you his words were no joke

he spent the next few hours painstakingly cleaning you over and over, Jeno’s scent gone but the feeling lingering in Seonghwa’s nostrils like a curse

Seonghwa nearly rubbed your skin raw to be rid of Lee fucking Jeno, only stopping when you whimpered quietly, ears drooping as you shook in the now-cold bath water

‘H-hwa… hurts-s.’

sighing, Seonghwa pressed an apologetic kiss to your forehead before letting his fingers scratch behind your ears in your favourite spot. that precious smile he’d withheld all day broke free from his mask of neutral displeasure, much to your delight. your ears perked up in response, melting under his touch as he hummed quietly before speaking.

‘you’d never leave me, right bun?’

eagerly nodding, you beamed up at him before extending your pinky to him.

‘promise!’

he interlocked his finger with yours, pressing your thumbs together as you beamed up at him. Seonghwa looked you over one more time before grabbing a towel and wrapping it around you, helping you get out the bath soon after. shivering in the cold, you happily jumped into Seonghwa’s arms when he opened them, resting your head on his chest and feeling his strong heartbeat as he murmured quietly to you. 

‘maybe you should… take some time off from the cafe.’

when he saw your confused expression, Seonghwa elaborated.

‘if Jeno comes to you while you’re working, you’ll basically be stuck there. He might be more… brazen than sniffing.’

your eyes widened at this, fear grasping them just as Seonghwa had expected. you were easy to manipulate, he just had to make Jeno into the big bad wolf and himself into the protector.

‘you’re right, Hwa… I-.. It’s for the best.’

Seonghwa gave you an approving smile and rewarded you with a scratch behind your ears, watching dotingly as you snuggled into his chest with a warm smile.

‘my poor little bunny… I’ll keep you safe, hm?’

giving him a small kiss to his cheek, you gazed at him with stars in your eyes, totally smitten.

‘thank you, Seonghwa. Thank you for keeping me safe.’

Seonghwa reciprocated with a short but sweet kiss to your lips, his gaze holding the same if not stronger intensity.

‘I’ll always keep you safe bun, I’ll keep you safe till my very last breath. I won’t let anything happen to you.’