#nerd soobin

You’re already fifteen minutes into class and the numbers on your notebook make less sense with every tick of the clock. The professor’s voice drones on—something about integrals, maybe, or quadratic something—but your eyes keep drifting to Soobin. He sits two rows ahead, always neat, hair shining, pen twirling effortlessly in his hand. His notes are immaculate, tiny symbols and perfect lines, everything color-coded and underlined.

You’ve been telling yourself for weeks to just ask him for help. Everyone says Soobin’s the friendliest guy in class, patient and good at explaining stuff, not to mention his smile makes even the coldest morning seem warm. But every time you work up the courage, you freeze. You picture your words coming out clumsy, your voice squeaking, your cheeks burning until you have to duck behind your notebook.

So you stare instead.

You watch the way his head tilts when he’s focused, the slight furrow in his brow when the professor asks a hard question, the easy way his lips part in a tiny, secret smile whenever he gets something right. Sometimes, he pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand, so soft and casual you wonder if he even notices himself doing it. You catch yourself memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes fan out when he glances down, the slow, thoughtful way he chews the cap of his pen.

You’re supposed to be copying down the formula on the board, but all you can think about is how you’d sound saying his name, asking if he could maybe, possibly, please help you with chapter five. Your leg bounces under the desk, nerves prickling through your skin, hands fidgeting with the corner of your notebook.

Every time Soobin laughs at something the professor says, you feel yourself smiling, too. You wonder what his voice would sound like right next to your ear, if he’d tease you for your messy handwriting or quietly praise you every time you get an answer right.

You shake yourself out of it, trying to focus on the next problem—but the numbers swim, impossible and blurry, and Soobin’s shoulders fill your vision, broad and calm and completely out of reach. You promise yourself, next class. You’ll ask him for help.

Just… not today.

✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔ ✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ✿ྀི

It’s almost dusk by the time you drag yourself to the campus café, still numb from your last math class. Your notebook is a graveyard of failed equations and doodles in the margins—flowers, little animals, endless spirals circling the one name you wish you could say out loud. You barely taste your cold fries. Every page you flip only reminds you that you’re screwed if something doesn’t change soon.

The café is half-full, busy enough for a hum of background chatter but quiet enough for you to hear your own anxious thoughts echoing: You’re not gonna pass. Your GPA is tanking. Why can’t you just ask for help? But the moment you imagine yourself actually walking up to Soobin, something in your chest seizes up. He’s too pretty, too tall, too careful and soft-spoken. And you—you’re just the girl in the corner, always behind, always blushing. What could you even offer him?

You’re half-lost in that spiral, your leg bouncing under the table, when Beomgyu flops into the seat across from you, nearly spilling his iced coffee all over your untouched lunch. He’s a whirlwind of energy and warmth, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a chunk of cinnamon roll already halfway gone. “Yo,” he says, not even pausing to swallow, “you look like someone just told you finals got moved up a month.”

You snort, flicking your gaze to him, hoping your panic isn’t too obvious. “Finals might as well be tomorrow for all the good this class is doing me. I’m, like, one more bad quiz away from dropping out and joining the circus.”

Beomgyu grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Hey, if you do, at least take me with you. I’ve always wanted to be shot out of a cannon. Or, you know, run the fried dough stand.”

You shake your head, a smile threatening despite everything. “I’m serious, Gyu. I’m failing. Like, failing failing. I’ve got one more test before the drop deadline, and if I flunk it I’m screwed. I’ll have to retake the class, lose my scholarship… my mom will kill me.”

He reaches across, stealing one of your fries. “Nah, she’ll just disown you and adopt me. Upgrade, honestly.”

You make a face, but he softens, voice gentling just a little. “You ever think of getting a tutor? Doesn’t your class have that, uh—what’s his name, Soobin? Guy with the pretty handwriting and the anime protagonist jawline?”

You try for nonchalance, but your cheeks give you away immediately. “Yeah. I mean, he’s in my class. But it’s not like we’re friends or anything. I’ve barely talked to him. I’d probably just embarrass myself.”

Beomgyu grins, eyes sharp, all mischief. “Uh-huh. Except you stare at him all class. And you doodled his name, like, three times on that napkin last week.”

You huff, snatching your hand back. “That was an accident. And maybe I do stare, but who wouldn’t? He’s, like, effortlessly good at everything. He never even uses his calculator. Sometimes he helps the professor solve shit on the board. Meanwhile, I can barely keep up with basic algebra.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, expression turning sly. “Okay, so what’s stopping you? Just go up and ask him. Worst he can do is say no.”

You sigh, picking at a fry, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have anything to offer him. Like, what, I’m gonna say, ‘Hey, I know you probably get paid for this, but would you help me for… what, free?’ I can’t even pay him in Starbucks points. I literally have nothing.”

He considers you, eyes scanning your face with something sharper than teasing. “You could offer him something else.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Like… friendship? Eternal gratitude? I already feel pathetic enough.”

He shakes his head, snickering. “C’mon, use your head. Or better yet, use your mouth.”

You stare, lips parted. “Excuse me?”

Beomgyu’s grin goes feral. “I’m just saying, college is expensive. Everybody wants something. You want math help, he wants to get off. It’s a win-win. A little blowie for a B-plus—classic barter system.”

You nearly choke on your drink, glancing around to see if anyone’s heard. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t just—no, Gyu! Jesus. That’s not how this works.”

He laughs harder, voice too loud, some of the other tables glancing over with smirks or rolled eyes. “Babe, this is college. That’s exactly how it works. You think nobody’s ever sucked off a TA for a passing grade? At least Soobin’s hot and, like, a genuinely nice guy. You’d be doing both of you a favor.”

Your cheeks burn, but your curiosity, traitorous, creeps in. “You think he’d even want that? I mean… with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Are you kidding? He’d be lucky. Besides, he totally has a thing for shy girls. I bet he’d go absolutely stupid for you. You’d show up all nervous and pretty, chewing your pen, and he’d lose his mind.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Stop. Oh my god, stop, I can’t even—no way. No way.”

He leans in, voice dropping, pushing the line between joke and dare. “Picture it: you’re sitting on his bed, he’s going over trig functions or whatever, and you just… slide down. He’s too polite to say anything at first. But then you look up at him with those eyes and he just—loses it. Moans so loud the whole floor hears. You probably ruin math for him forever.”

You groan, but now the image is stuck in your head—Soobin, red-faced, hands fisted in your hair, biting back moans as you work him over, his voice trembling as he tries to keep explaining the difference between sine and cosine, failing completely when you take him deeper. Your pulse is racing and you hate that it’s not entirely out of disgust.

Beomgyu is relentless. “You’d probably ace every test after that, too. Positive reinforcement, y’know? Maybe he’d let you practice on him before exams. Hell, you’d probably get more than a B if you were really good.”

You peek at him, voice trembling between horror and interest. “You’re a menace. There’s no way I’d actually do it. He’d think I was a creep, or a desperate perv, or—”

He shrugs, picking up your cold drink and taking a sip. “Maybe, but maybe not. I mean, have you seen the way he looks at you? He totally stares. And he always picks up your pen when you drop it. That’s boyfriend behavior, babe. At least blowjob-for-a-better-grade behavior.”

You cover your face again, trying to will the blush away. “It’s not happening. I’d rather fail.”

He nudges your foot under the table, not letting up. “Suit yourself, but if you ever change your mind, let me know how it goes. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two if it works out.” His tone is light but you catch a softer edge, almost protective. “Seriously, though, you should ask him. Not for, like, blowjobs, but just for help. You’re smart. You just need a leg up. He’d be into it. And if he’s not, fuck him.”

You sigh, biting your lip, eyes drifting back to your ruined notebook. But the damage is done—the idea is planted, a messy tangle of embarrassment and curiosity curling in your chest. You imagine going to Soobin’s dorm, voice trembling, asking him for help. Maybe you’d stutter, trip over your words. Maybe he’d smile, all dimples and patience, and say yes. Maybe his hands would linger when he handed you his notes, his knees would bump yours under the table. Maybe you’d get brave, get close, see what it felt like to break the rules.

Beomgyu stands, stretching, grabbing the last fry and popping it in his mouth. “I gotta run, but seriously, think about it. And if you decide to go the, uh, ‘extra credit’ route? Wear that cute lip gloss you like. Bet he’d go crazy.”

You throw a napkin at him, but your heart’s still pounding, the idea lodged in your brain like a song you can’t shake. Maybe you’ll just ask Soobin for help. Maybe you’ll keep it innocent. Maybe you’ll never tell Beomgyu what really happens. But as you pack up your things and head for the library, you can’t stop replaying the fantasy—Soobin’s hands in your hair, his low, desperate moans, the flush in his cheeks as you drop to your knees for him.

You tell yourself it’s just a joke, just Beomgyu being Beomgyu, but deep down you know you’re already wondering how it would feel to really ask for more.

And you’re not sure you’d say no if Soobin offered.

✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔ ✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ✿ྀི

You spend three days torturing yourself with the idea. It’s so stupid, so reckless, so out of character it makes your heart race just thinking about it. Every time you catch your own reflection, you picture yourself kneeling between Soobin’s legs, lips slick and shiny, his face a mask of wide-eyed shock and desperate need. It feels wrong and so hot at the same time, an intrusive thought that you just can’t shake.

You imagine how it would go. You imagine what you’d say. You practice in front of your dorm mirror with the door locked, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning as you mouth the words: If you tutor me… I’ll give you head. The syllables feel heavy and sticky, like honey on your tongue. Every time you try to picture Soobin’s reaction, you spiral—sometimes he’s so shocked he runs away, sometimes he’s so into it he drags you to the closest empty room, sometimes you just combust from embarrassment and wake up in your own bed, heart hammering, thighs squeezed tight together.

By day three, you’re so keyed up you can barely eat, can barely sleep, your brain a hamster wheel of “should I, shouldn’t I, what if he laughs, what if he says yes, what if I have to look him in the eye every day after this, what if—” But then you think about the sinking grades, the looming deadline, the way Soobin’s soft, pretty hands always sweep across his notes, his mouth pursed in focus, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he squints at the board. The way he sometimes glances over his shoulder, eyes flickering to yours, as if he knows you’re watching. The way he always holds the door a second longer for you, lets you pass, doesn’t quite meet your gaze but smiles anyway.

That morning, you swipe Beomgyu’s stupid, not-so-subtle advice through your DMs—“at least wear that clear gloss, babe, it’ll distract him if nothing else”—and, mortifyingly, you actually do it. You dig out your old tube of shiny, sticky, ultra-gloss lip balm from the bottom of your makeup bag, the kind that makes your lips glisten like you’ve just been kissed. You dab it on, trying to ignore how your hands tremble, smacking your lips together and staring at your reflection, wondering if you look desperate, or pretty, or just completely out of your mind.

You check your phone. You still have ten minutes before you need to leave for class. Ten minutes to obsess, to back out, to rehearse every scenario and watch yourself fail every one. You almost message Beomgyu, almost ask him to tell you not to do it, but then you realize if you do he’ll just send another ten messages making things worse, so you throw your phone on your bed, grab your backpack, and head out into the hall before you can talk yourself down.

The walk to class is a blur of nervous energy. Your heart is beating so loud you wonder if people can hear it in your footsteps. Your hands fidget with your bag strap, thumbs rubbing over the zipper, and you keep ducking your head, scared someone will notice the gloss, the nerves, the wild plan rolling around in your brain like a dare.

Halfway down the hall, rounding the corner toward the math building, you spot Beomgyu leaning against the vending machine, scrolling through his phone, his headphones around his neck. He looks up just as you pass, eyes flickering to your face, and his mouth twists into a slow, evil grin. “Oh? Someone got all shiny for class today. Got a hot date with a quadratic equation?”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks are hot, and you can’t hide the way you duck your chin. “Shut up. Don’t start.”

He pushes off the wall, falling in step beside you, lowering his voice. “No, seriously. You look cute. He’s not gonna know what hit him. You’re really gonna do it, huh?” His tone is gentle under the teasing, and for a second you want to hug him and punch him at the same time.

You flip him off, but there’s a smile behind it. “You’re such a menace. If I die of humiliation, you’re giving my eulogy.”

He cackles, saluting you as you push through the building’s glass doors. “With pleasure. ‘Here lies the bravest bitch I ever met. She went out with lip gloss and a mission.’ Good luck, baby.”

You stick your tongue out, hurrying into the classroom before he can get another word in. Inside, you slide into your usual seat, tug your notebook and pencil from your bag, and try to act normal, but your whole body is humming with nerves. You glance up—Soobin is already there, sitting in the third row, headphones in, bobbing his head ever-so-slightly to music only he can hear. He looks good, as always: hair a little mussed, glasses perched on his nose, sleeves rolled up just enough to show a hint of his forearms. You have to look away before you get lost staring.

Class starts, and you can’t focus. Not at all. The professor’s voice is a distant, garbled mumble, words sliding right off your brain. You pretend to write notes, but all you do is doodle little hearts and tiny equations that make no sense, while your mind loops: What if I just ask for help? What if I actually say it? What if I choke? What if he says yes?

Every time Soobin raises his hand to answer a question, your stomach does a somersault. Every time his mouth curves into a little smile—especially when the professor says, “Good job, Soobin!”—you feel your thighs squeeze together, heat blooming under your skin, and your tongue flicks out to swipe the gloss, just for something to do. You start to imagine what it would feel like to kneel for him, what his voice would sound like breaking, how his hand would feel cradling your jaw. You force yourself back to reality, but your heart is racing so hard you can barely breathe.

The clock on the wall crawls. You’re sweaty, jittery, your foot tapping a nervous rhythm under your desk. You keep replaying your script in your head, but every version feels too forward, too awkward, too much. You think about backing out—you don’t have to do this, you can just ask for tutoring and pay him in Starbucks, you don’t even have to make it weird—but then you remember Beomgyu’s smirk and the way Soobin looks at you sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking. You remember how it feels to want something so bad it aches.

Class finally ends. You don’t remember a single thing from the lesson—your page is blank except for the imprint of your sweaty palm. Everyone starts packing up, voices rising as chairs scrape and zippers whine. You freeze, panic crawling up your throat. You almost let it go. You almost stay silent, but then you see Soobin gathering his notes, tucking them carefully into his bag, his movements neat and slow.

Now or never, you tell yourself. You’re not backing out. You’ll regret it forever if you do.

You start to stand, but sit again. Then stand halfway, then freeze, your brain going a million miles an hour.

Okay, just get his attention. Say something, anything. It’s just Soobin. You’re just talking.

Your mouth is dry. You swallow. “Um—Soobin?” Your voice is thin, almost drowned out by the chatter, but he glances up, a little startled, lips parting, his eyes soft and curious behind his glasses.

He pushes his headphones off, draping them around his neck, and blinks, shy but attentive. “Oh. Hi! Uh, did you need something?”

You hug your bag to your chest, willing your voice not to shake. “Hey. Um, do you have a sec? I, uh, wanted to ask you something. About class.”

He gives you that gentle, nervous smile, the one that always makes you want to melt. “Yeah, of course! What’s up?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. You almost chicken out. Then, with a deep breath, you launch into it. “So, um. I’m really struggling. With, like, everything. I keep failing tests, and if I don’t pass the next one, I’m pretty much doomed. And, um, I heard you’re really good at this stuff, and I was wondering if—if maybe you’d tutor me?” You’re rambling, words tumbling over each other, eyes flicking away from his face.

Soobin’s cheeks go a little pink, but his smile is bright and earnest. “Oh! Yeah, I mean—yeah, I can do that. I’d love to help.” He looks so happy to be asked, it makes you feel like the biggest idiot for waiting this long.

You almost leave it there. You should leave it there. But then you remember the gloss, the way Beomgyu said it, the way your heart is beating like a drum. You want to say it before you lose your nerve. You take a breath, eyes darting to his lips, then back to his eyes.

“And, um—since I can’t really pay you, I thought I could… I don’t know, return the favor? I mean, like, if you wanted—I could give you head? Like, uh… blowjobs? For tutoring?” Your voice drops to a whisper, every syllable a living nightmare. You almost cover your mouth, half-convinced you’ve said it way too loud.

For a moment, Soobin just stares at you. His face is frozen, all wide eyes and parted lips, the kind of shock you only see in cartoons. He blinks once, twice, his bag halfway zipped, hands pausing as if he can’t quite process what just happened.

“Wait, what?” His voice is almost a squeak—soft, a little breathless, the color rising in his cheeks. “You… did you just say…?”

You want to die. “I—yeah. I mean, only if you want! It’s, like, not a requirement or anything, I just—can’t pay you. So I figured—um—maybe you’d be interested? I don’t know.” You’re staring at your shoes, your hands trembling, your whole body hot and cold at once.

He’s still staring, stunned, but now there’s a flush creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He fumbles his pen, dropping it, and has to crouch to pick it up, which buys you both a second to breathe.

When he comes back up, his voice is softer, shy but somehow steady. “Uh… wow. I mean—yeah, I… I’d like that.” He’s quiet, but there’s an edge to his words, a little flicker of something needy and amazed, as if he never thought he’d be in this situation. “Are you sure? I mean, I can tutor you, you don’t have to… I’m happy to help anyway.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes, mouth sticky with nerves. “I want to. If you want. I mean, if you’re into it.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I—I am. I mean. Yeah.” He lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Should I… give you my address? Or do you want to come to my dorm after class tomorrow?”

You nod, pulse pounding, unable to believe this is really happening. “After class works. What time?”

He glances at his phone, thumb shaking just a little as he checks his schedule. “Uh, six? Room 218B. What’s your number? I’ll text you, just in case.”

You both stand there for a second, the silence heavy and electrified as you give soobin your number. You can’t help but notice how he keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, his eyes dipping down to your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. You wonder if he’s thinking about it, if he’s already imagining your mouth on him, if he’s ever been this flustered before.

You say a quick, awkward goodbye, practically bolting out of the classroom, your knees weak, your hands shaking, the slick gloss on your lips tingling with every breath. You replay every second, every word, every look. You imagine Soobin’s hands in your hair, his breath stuttering as you kneel between his thighs, his cock heavy and hot on your tongue, the taste of him, the sound of his voice breaking as he loses control. You imagine being praised, degraded, worshipped, ruined—all because you were brave enough to ask for what you wanted.

✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔ ✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ✿ྀི

You walk back to your dorm in a daze, sneakers slapping the concrete, air cold against your cheeks but the rest of you burning up. Every step, your mind is on repeat—Did I actually say that? Did Soobin actually say yes? Did I hallucinate that entire conversation? You keep replaying the stunned look on his face, the way his lips parted, the flush creeping up his neck, the stutter in his voice as he said yes, as if he’d never even considered that something like this could happen to him. As if you weren’t just a regular girl asking for tutoring, but some kind of secret agent on a mission of pure filth.

You unlock your door, stumble inside, and drop your backpack to the floor without even looking. You don’t even bother taking off your shoes before grabbing your phone with sweaty, shaking hands. It’s an instinct, muscle memory—there’s only one person you could possibly call right now, only one person who’d actually appreciate the chaos.

The phone barely rings once before Beomgyu picks up, his voice already cackling through the speaker. “What’s up, slut?”

You let out a helpless, nervous laugh, flopping back on your bed and staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling. “You are never going to believe what I just did.”

“Oh, babe, I already know. You finally confessed your undying love to Soobin, he swept you off your feet, and now you’re moving to Bali to raise alpacas together.”

“Shut up, I’m serious!” You bury your face in your pillow, words tumbling out fast. “Beomgyu, I did it. I actually asked him. Like, actually asked if he’d tutor me—and then I told him I’d give him head as payment.”

There’s a long beat of silence, then Beomgyu absolutely loses it—howling laughter, a sharp slap of palm against something (maybe his desk, maybe his thigh), his breathless voice barely holding it together. “You did not. Oh my fucking god, you really said it?”

“I said it!” you moan, clutching your pillow so hard your knuckles ache. “I was so nervous. I stuttered, I almost chickened out, but I actually said it. He just—he looked at me like I’d hit him with a brick. He dropped his pen, Gyu. I think I killed him.”

He’s still laughing, wheezing now, almost coughing. “Holy shit. I’m so proud of you. Did you use the line I gave you? Did you bat your lashes and go all ‘I’ll pay you with my mouth, oppa?’”

You groan. “I did not call him oppa, you asshole. I barely made it through the sentence. I probably looked like I was about to pass out.”

Beomgyu just sighs, the fondness cutting through his teasing. “And? What’d he say? Did he faint? Did he start speaking in tongues?”

You flip onto your back, heart still racing, toes curling in your shoes. “He just… he stared at me for like, thirty seconds, then he asked me to repeat it—like he didn’t believe it. Then he got all pink and said yes. He actually said yes, Gyu.”

He makes a dramatic, almost fake-sentimental sound. “I’m honestly tearing up. My baby’s all grown up and bartering blowjobs for math grades. I always knew you had it in you.”

You giggle, the tension bubbling out in a rush. “You are such an asshole.”

“But I’m your asshole,” he counters, smug as ever. “So, let’s talk strategy. Tomorrow’s the big day, right? You going to his dorm all innocent, or are you going to go full femme fatale?”

You twist a loose thread on your comforter, the nerves swooping back in. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Gyu. Like, do I just show up and… drop to my knees? Or do we actually study first? What if I’m terrible at it? What if he tells everyone? What if he doesn’t even want me to—?”

He cuts you off with a snort. “First off, you’re not terrible. I’ve heard your ex talk, you literally made him see stars. And second, Soobin’s not the type to brag—he probably doesn’t even have friends he’d tell. He’s the kind of guy who’d write about it in his diary and then feel guilty for, like, a week. He’s probably gonna thank you a hundred times and then offer you snacks afterward.”

You cover your face, blushing so hard your ears burn. “Oh my god, please. I can’t even picture it. What do I wear? I can’t look like I’m trying too hard, but if I just show up in sweatpants, is that weird?”

Beomgyu hums, like he’s actually weighing his options. “Okay, so here’s what you do. Jeans that make your ass look good, but, like, casual. T-shirt that you know you look cute in, maybe a hoodie to keep it chill. And definitely the gloss. No question.”

You snort. “You really think he’ll notice the lip gloss?”

He makes a tutting sound. “Trust me, babe. Boys like Soobin? They notice. He’ll probably spend the whole time staring at your mouth. He’ll be thinking about it every time you talk. And when you finally go down on him, he’ll lose his fucking mind. He’ll remember the way your lips looked forever.”

You groan, tossing your arm over your face. “You are not helping.”

He just laughs, soft and warm. “I’m helping the only way I know how. Besides, you want him to think about your mouth. He’s going to be a mess. I bet he’s nervous, too. He’s probably in his room right now practicing what to say to you. You’re going to break him.”

You let the silence stretch, the weight of it all hitting you. “I’m so fucking nervous, Gyu. What if I get there and can’t go through with it? What if I freeze? What if I just… sit there and stare at him again?”

He’s quiet for a second, then his voice softens, all the teasing stripped away. “Then you just tell him you want to study. Or you leave. Or you do whatever the fuck you want, because you don’t owe him anything, and you’re still the bravest bitch I know. Seriously. You already did the hard part. The rest is just… whatever you want it to be.”

You sniff, blinking hard, feeling a little teary despite yourself. “Thanks, Gyu. Seriously.”

He clears his throat, feigning macho. “Don’t get all sappy on me now. You’ve got a dick to blow and a GPA to save. I expect a full report, okay?”

You laugh, tears forgotten, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’ll be the first to know. Maybe I’ll even text you live updates.”

“Please do,” he says, voice absolutely delighted. “Actually, no—call me from the bathroom if you need backup. I’ll talk you through it. Like a coach.”

You roll your eyes, but you know he means it. “You are the worst hype man ever.”

He’s grinning—you can hear it in his voice. “But the most loyal. Now, go take a shower, practice your ‘innocent student in need’ look, and remember—gloss, cute underwear, and confidence. You got this.”

You finally kick off your shoes, shoving your face into your pillow and screaming into it, feeling both mortified and wildly alive. The call ends with Beomgyu shouting “Go get that math dick, queen!” and you promising to text him the minute anything happens, your hands still shaking with adrenaline.

The rest of the night, you can’t focus on anything—homework, dinner, TikTok, nothing. Every time you brush your teeth, you think about Soobin’s mouth. Every time you catch your reflection, you picture what his face will look like, eyes wide, lips bitten, your gloss smeared across his cock.

You practice your smile, your “thanks for tutoring me” voice, your “oh, I’m just so grateful” look. You lay out five different outfits and hate them all. You wonder if you should bring snacks, or gum, or mouthwash, or maybe just a little bravery tucked into your back pocket.

When you finally crawl into bed, your phone lights up with a text from Beomgyu:

 - [gyu] — you better wear that gloss, slut.

You laugh so hard you startle your roommate. The nerves are still there, but now there’s something steadier underneath—excitement, confidence, maybe even a little pride. You did it. You actually did it.

Tomorrow, you’ll walk into Soobin’s dorm with sticky lips and shaky hands and maybe, just maybe, enough guts to see it through.

And if not, at least you’ll have Beomgyu on speed dial, ready to talk you through the rest.

✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔ ✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ✿ྀི

You wake up with your heart pounding. It’s not even eight in the morning, but your brain is already in overdrive, looping through every possible outcome, every possible disaster, every possible way this could go completely and utterly wrong. The sun’s barely risen and you’ve already rehearsed the words in your head a hundred times: “Hey Soobin, thanks for helping me—can I suck your dick now?” You bury your face in your pillow and groan, considering dropping out and joining the circus all over again.

But life marches on, and so does your schedule. You have history class today—your most boring lecture of the week, the kind where even the professor sounds like he’s sleepwalking through the Industrial Revolution. You spend twenty minutes getting dressed, agonizing over your jeans, ending up in your softest, most nondescript pair, and a sweatshirt that’s cozy enough to hide the fact that your hands won’t stop shaking. You swipe on the gloss (because now it’s just a nervous habit), toss your hair into a messy bun, and spend a ridiculous amount of time staring at your phone screen on the walk to campus.

You don’t see Soobin. You keep looking, scanning every face in the crowd, hoping maybe he’ll pass you on the sidewalk or be at the coffee shop, but he’s nowhere in sight. You text Beomgyu—“I haven’t chickened out yet. That’s gotta count for something, right?”—and he immediately responds with a voice memo of him singing Eye of the Tiger, off-key and extra dramatic. It makes you laugh, and the tension in your chest loosens just a little.

History class is a blur. You sit in the third row, surrounded by a sea of half-awake students, your notebook open to a blank page. You stare at the clock. You doodle. You underline the word “TREATY” seven times without knowing why. The professor is droning about treaties, about presidents you vaguely remember from high school, but you’re not really listening. Your mind drifts to Soobin: the way his hand shook just a little when you made the offer, the soft rasp of his voice when he said yes, the shy way his eyes kept darting to your lips. Every so often, you catch yourself zoning out, replaying the way you’ll kneel for him, the heat of his hands in your hair, the sound he might make the first time you put your mouth on him.

Your thighs squeeze together under the desk. You scrawl “6:00” at the top of the page, then immediately erase it, blushing for no reason.

By the time class ends, you’ve learned absolutely nothing about American foreign policy, but you have developed at least four new worst-case scenarios for tonight, all of which end with you either getting banned from the dorms forever or turning into a viral meme.

You check your phone: 5:02 PM. One hour. Sixty minutes. You feel like you might throw up or burst into song, maybe both at once. You shuffle home, fighting the urge to turn around and run straight to Beomgyu’s dorm for moral support.

Instead, you stumble into your own room, dump your backpack on the floor, and immediately flop onto your bed, phone clutched in your hand. You FaceTime Beomgyu before you can lose your nerve.

He answers on the first ring, his face filling the screen, hair fluffed out like he’s been running his hands through it all day. “There she is! Ready to suck your way to a better GPA?”

You groan, already regretting this. “Please, Gyu, I need support, not more anxiety.”

He laughs, propping his phone up so you get the full effect of his shit-eating grin. “Oh, I’m very supportive. Want me to practice with you? I’ll even wear my glasses and act shy if that helps.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “You’re the worst. I need outfit advice. If I show up looking like a try-hard, he’ll know I’m not usually this put together.”

He sits up straighter, serious now, eyes glittering. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with.”

You hold up three hangers, one by one—a hoodie and leggings, jeans and a crop top, then, after a deep breath, a low-cut top and a black skirt that you only ever wear when you’re feeling bold or reckless (which is to say, never). Beomgyu whistles low when he sees the last one.

“Oh, damn. That’s a lot of chest for a math study session,” he teases. “Gonna show him where to aim?”

You smack your tongue, face burning. “Shut up! Is it too much? I don’t want to look like I’m expecting him to… you know, but also I kind of am.”

He cackles. “It’s not too much. You look hot. Trust me, if he doesn’t get the hint, he’s either blind or dead. Honestly, you could show up in a trash bag and he’d still be shaking. But you in that skirt? He’s gonna be too flustered to solve two plus two.”

You twist in front of your mirror, pulling at the hem, tugging the top a little higher, then lower again. “Are you sure? I don’t want to look desperate. Or, like, too easy.”

Beomgyu shakes his head, earnest for once. “You don’t look desperate. You look fucking hot. And you look confident—which is hotter than anything. He’ll love it. Promise.”

You sit on your bed, feet swinging nervously. “I keep thinking I’m going to get there and just… freeze. What if I forget what to say? What if he just wants to study?”

He grins. “If he just wants to study, you study. If he wants more, you do what you’re comfortable with. Don’t stress. It’s supposed to be fun. Besides, he already said yes. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger—and now, probably, your lips.”

You roll your eyes, but his encouragement is working. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He fake-flips his hair. “That’s what I’m here for. So. Final choice—what are you wearing?”

You stand, phone in one hand, smoothing the skirt with the other. “I think… this. I’ll throw on a jacket so it’s not obvious. But the skirt, the top, and the gloss. He won’t know what hit him.”

Beomgyu pretends to fan himself. “Iconic. Legendary. The campus won’t recover. Seriously, though—bring gum, take deep breaths, and remember, you’re doing this because you want to. He’s lucky as hell.”

You nod, biting your lip. The nerves are still there, but now there’s something steadier—anticipation, a hint of pride, the sense that maybe you can do this. Maybe you already are.

You sit with Beomgyu for a while, talking about nothing and everything—memes, campus gossip, which professors are the worst, what you’d do if you won the lottery. It’s grounding, the kind of easy friendship that makes everything else feel possible.

With ten minutes to spare, you check your reflection again. The skirt is short but not obscene, the top shows just enough cleavage to make your point without looking like a Halloween costume, and the gloss is perfect—shiny, subtle, inviting. You dab perfume behind your ears, check your breath, and try to steady your hands.

You grab your bag, and Beomgyu, ever the cheerleader, grins through the screen. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Text me if you need an excuse to bail. Or if you want to brag. Or if you need a post-game analysis.”

You blow him a kiss, nerves jangling, and end the call.

Door locked, jacket zipped, heart pounding—you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.

✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ᜔ ✿ྀི ׅ ᤱ ⸱ ᜔𓂂 ׅ ᤱ ⸱᜔ 𓂂 ׅ ✿ྀི

As you head out, the sky is streaked with pink and gold, the quad buzzing with students hurrying to dinner or the gym or their own secret rendezvous.

The closer you get to Soobin’s dorm, the more unreal it feels. You must have checked the room number—218B—at least five times since leaving your own building, your phone screen smudged with nervous fingerprints. The world outside is golden and soft, but you barely notice anything except your own shallow breathing and the faint sting of anxiety in your chest.

By the time you reach his floor, the carpeted hallway is nearly empty, save for the low thrum of a distant bassline behind one of the closed doors, the muffled chatter of a TV game show. There’s a faint, institutional smell—cleaner, ramen, and something sweet, maybe cologne. You walk down the hallway on autopilot, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers, feeling the cool air on your bare thighs. Your jacket feels too warm, so you shrug it off, folding it over your arm to give your hands something to do.

You stop in front of 218B, staring at the white plastic numbers for a full minute, running through every possible scenario in your head. Your heart is hammering, palms slick, mouth suddenly dry. Do I knock now? Should I text? What if I choke? You start pacing—three steps down, three steps back—then lean against the wall, fiddling with your phone, pretending to check messages, your thumb hovering over Beomgyu’s contact just in case you need an emergency distraction.

After what feels like forever, you gather your courage and step back in front of the door. You knock—softly at first, then a little firmer. It’s barely been two minutes, but it feels like hours. Your whole body is buzzing, anticipation and fear tangling together under your skin.

The door opens and there he is—not Soobin, but Heeseung. He fills the doorway with ease, his frame relaxed, head tipped back just enough that his messy hair falls into his eyes. He’s got that notorious, lazy confidence—the kind that makes people stare and then look away, not sure if they want to run or flirt.

Heeseung’s wearing a thin, white tee and black joggers, his feet bare, a single silver chain glinting at his throat. He takes one look at you and lets a grin slide slow and wide across his face, dimples flashing, gaze sweeping from your shoes to your thighs to your chest. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Whoa. Are you sure you’re at the right door?” His voice is syrupy, teasing, and a little bit low, making it clear he already knows the answer. “Or did the campus fairy drop you off as a prank?”

Your throat works. “Um, hi. I’m here for… Soobin? We have a tutoring thing?”

He leans against the frame, folding his arms, that sly energy ratcheting up another notch. “Soobin, huh? I thought he was tutoring the basketball team tonight. Didn’t know he was running a secret modeling agency on the side.”

You flush hard, eyes darting away. “Just math. I’m, um… really bad at it. Sorry if I’m early.”

Heeseung laughs—a soft, rich sound that echoes down the hall. “Nah, don’t apologize. I’m just giving you shit.” He’s still blocking the door, still very much in your space, but it’s not exactly hostile. There’s something about him—dangerous, but not cruel. “Math, huh? Well, if you ever need a break from numbers, you should know I’m pretty good with words. And hands.” He wiggles his fingers, grinning.

You stammer out a tiny laugh, shifting your weight, clinging to your jacket. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“Promise you will.” Heeseung winks, his voice dropping just a little. “Let me know if Soobin bores you. I’m always around for extra credit.”

Just then you hear footsteps behind him. Soobin appears in the hallway, a little breathless, hair even messier than usual, as if he’s been nervously running his hands through it. His eyes flicker from Heeseung’s face to yours and back again, and his jaw tightens for a split second before he pastes on his gentle, too-polite smile.

“Heeseung, don’t scare her off,” Soobin says, voice soft but firm, a subtle warning underneath the friendliness. He looks at you, his eyes all softness and nerves. “Hey, you made it.”

Heeseung shrugs, but you can see him eyeing Soobin with a kind of secret amusement. “Just being a good host, man.” He leans a little closer to you, dropping his voice just enough that Soobin has to strain to hear: “You sure you want the nerd tonight? Last chance to trade up.”

You almost laugh from the absurdity, but Soobin steps in, moving just a bit in front of you. He’s still smiling, but it’s tight, his fingers curled at his side. “Thanks, Heeseung. I’ve got it from here.”

Heeseung finally backs off, shoulders rolling, but he gives you a wink, voice lilting: “Have fun, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which is… nothing.” He disappears into the room across the hall, door closing with a soft, cocky click.

You’re left blinking, heartbeat pounding, your skin prickling from the attention and the tension. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Soobin turns to you, hands tugging nervously at the hem of his sweatshirt. His cheeks are tinted pink, his eyes darting everywhere but your chest, which makes you oddly more aware of just how much skin you’re showing. “Sorry about him,” he says, voice flustered and a little rushed. “He’s not always that—um—intense. He’s a good friend, I swear, he just… likes to joke a lot.”

You smile, letting out a shaky laugh. “It’s okay. I’ve seen him around campus. He seems… fun. Maybe a little too fun.”

Soobin lets out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah. He’s… a lot. But he’s harmless. He just, um, likes to pretend he’s a player.”

He steps aside, letting you into the room fully. You glance around, soaking in the details—his bed is perfectly made, a thick blue blanket folded at the foot, a pile of textbooks stacked on the desk with a neat row of gel pens arranged by color. There’s a tiny succulent on the window ledge, its pot painted with a sleepy cartoon bear. On the wall are a couple of art prints—one from a Studio Ghibli film, another a vintage math poster that makes you smile.

You hesitate at the doorway, but Soobin gestures quickly, his nervous energy spilling over. “You can, uh, sit anywhere. Bed’s fine, or the chair, whatever you like.” He moves a stack of papers, clearing a space at the desk, then sits at the edge of the bed himself, patting the spot next to him but not quite making eye contact.

You settle on the bed, setting your bag at your feet. The mattress dips under Soobin’s weight, and you’re suddenly, acutely aware of how close you are—your knees almost touching, your bare thigh only inches from the soft denim of his jeans.

Soobin finally looks at you, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat too long on your lips, your bare shoulders, before he catches himself and snaps his eyes back to his hands. He clears his throat, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie, cheeks flushed and so, so soft. “I’m really glad you came. Sorry again for… everything. Heeseung’s kind of impossible sometimes.”

You shake your head, smiling, your own nerves finally starting to give way to a warm flutter of excitement. “You’re fine. Honestly, I’m more scared of failing math than your roommate.”

He laughs, quiet and genuine, and the air between you softens. “Well, I can definitely help with the math. And… whatever else you want, I guess.” He stumbles a little over the last part, voice turning shy.

There’s a charged pause—his hand inches from yours, the glow of the fairy lights painting golden shadows on the wall, both of you unsure what to say next. You both let out a breath at the same time, laughing quietly, your knees finally bumping.

It feels real now. Not a joke, not a dare, not a dirty story you’ll laugh about with Beomgyu, but something just for you and Soobin—quiet, electric, waiting.

The moment you settle in next to Soobin, all the crazy, filthy fantasies you’ve been battling for days feel so far away. You’re just a girl in a skirt, too aware of her own body, and a boy who keeps pushing his glasses up his nose every time he gets nervous, legs angled politely away from you, the math book between you like a little wall. For the first few minutes, it’s just numbers. Well, Soobin’s numbers. Yours are more like hopeless doodles pretending to be math.

He’s so earnest it almost hurts—careful, gentle, his voice always a little quiet, but patient. “Okay, let’s try this one again,” he says, shifting closer on the bed. He’s in full tutor mode, gesturing softly with his pen, his left knee brushing yours every time he leans over to check your notes. “So if you distribute the negative, remember you have to switch the sign for both terms inside the parentheses. Here—see?” His hand finds yours without thinking, nudging your pencil along the page, his skin warm and smooth against your knuckles.

You try to focus. You really try. But it’s impossible when he’s this close—when you can see the tiny scar on the bridge of his nose, the way his lashes flicker every time he blinks, the curve of his lips when he’s thinking hard. You find yourself nodding along, but your mind is just noise, a high, fizzy pulse in your chest.

Soobin, for his part, is the picture of calm. On the surface. But you can feel the tension in his body—every time you shift, his eyes flicker down, lingering too long on your collarbones, the soft spill of your chest in the low-cut top. He tries not to look, you can tell; he’s polite to the core, but sometimes he loses himself and just stares, his lips parting like he’s about to say something, his cheeks burning before he drags his eyes away.

You try not to notice—but you do. He’s distracted, too. His voice trips over words. Sometimes he forgets to finish his explanations, his gaze darting from your mouth to your cleavage, then back up to your eyes, apologetic and guilty but so, so hungry. He drops his pen once, fingers trembling, and you both reach for it at the same time. Your hands brush, and you flinch—then both laugh, shy and nervous, like kids at a sleepover.

The math, meanwhile, is a blur. You stare at the numbers, but they don’t fit together. You get the feeling Soobin could explain it ten more times and it still wouldn’t make sense—not with the way he’s sitting so close, his thigh pressing gently into yours, his scent all fresh laundry and something sweet. He leans over you, points to a problem in your notebook, and his hair falls forward, close enough to touch. For a second, you imagine threading your fingers through it, pulling his face down to yours, smearing his mouth with your gloss.

“So you just… FOIL the first and last terms,” he murmurs, but you’re watching his mouth instead of the page, every word warm against your cheek. You’re blushing, you know you are, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does, because he bites his lip and clears his throat, shifting his legs. His jeans look tight, and there’s a bulge in the front that you try not to stare at, but every time you glance down it’s a little bigger, a little more obvious.

You wonder what he’s thinking. Is he picturing you on your knees? Is he imagining how your lips would look stretched around him, spit shining on your chin, the way Beomgyu so gleefully described? Or is he nervous for some other reason—scared to ask, scared to take, scared to ruin something soft?

He keeps teaching, but his eyes keep finding you—your lips, your throat, the curve of your chest every time you shift. At one point, you catch him staring so blatantly that you both freeze, then look away in unison, embarrassed, pretending it didn’t happen.

The silence that follows is electric. You can hear your own breath, the hum of his laptop fan, the distant laughter from the hallway. The window’s still cracked, and every breeze makes you shiver, your skin prickling, nipples tightening under your top, and you catch Soobin glancing there, then back up so fast you almost miss it.

You do a few more problems, but your answers are a mess. You keep messing up the signs, writing the wrong numbers, chewing your lip until the gloss is sticky on your tongue. “Sorry,” you mutter after the third mistake in a row, shoulders hunching. “I’m really not getting this.”

He shakes his head, so soft, so gentle it hurts. “No, it’s okay! You’re doing better than you think. It’s hard—especially when you’re tired, or, um… distracted.”

You look up at him, and he’s flushed—his cheeks pink, his mouth damp, his hands fidgeting in his lap. For the first time you notice just how big he is, how his thighs stretch the denim, how he keeps shifting, like he’s uncomfortable. His notebook is positioned strategically over his crotch, but you can see the outline of his cock anyway—thick, straining, the shape of it bold and impossible to ignore.

The sexual tension is suffocating. You try to focus on your breathing, on anything but how badly you want to touch him. You can smell him—shampoo, sweat, and something raw, something musky that makes your thighs clench together. Every time you move, your skirt hikes up a little, and his gaze flickers down, then away, throat bobbing.

“So, uh,” he tries, “do you… want to keep going? We can take a break if you need. Or I can try explaining it a different way.”

His voice is shaky, low, and you realize you’re both avoiding the elephant in the room. You know what you promised. You know why you’re here. Your heart is hammering, adrenaline and want coiled so tight in your belly it aches.

You stare at him for a long moment, biting your lip, trying to figure out what to say. Part of you wants to tease him, to draw it out, but you’re too nervous, too needy, too far gone. You take a deep breath, then reach out, your fingers trembling as you tug his notebook gently away from his lap.

“Soobin?” you whisper, voice barely above the hum of the fan. “Do you… want me to…? Now?”

His eyes widen—really widen—his lips parting as he glances down at his own lap, then back at you. He looks like you just punched all the air out of his lungs. For a second he doesn’t answer, just stares, face red, hands clenched so tight his knuckles go white.

You wait, anxiety twisting in your gut, but there’s something in his eyes—hope, disbelief, hunger—that makes your skin tingle. When he finally speaks, it’s soft, a little breathless, but so fucking sincere.

“Yeah,” he whispers, almost stuttering, eyes shining. “If you… if you want to, I—yeah. Please.”

You smile, nervous and shy and a little proud, the words hanging between you like a secret. There’s a tremble in your hands, but you’re ready—you want this, you want him, and for once, you’re not afraid to show it.

He sits perfectly still, breath coming shallow and fast, his eyes glued to your mouth. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the muscle jumping in his jaw, the desperate need he’s trying so hard to hide. The room feels charged, the air thick with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

You move closer, knees bumping his, and he lets out a shaky sigh, his hands fluttering in his lap. His cock is huge—there’s no other word for it—pressing hard against his jeans, a thick line straining the zipper, the outline bold and intimidating. You imagine what it’ll be like to wrap your lips around him, to taste him, to hear him moan your name. The thought sends a bolt of heat through you, your own thighs squeezing tight, your breath shallow.

He clears his throat, voice a broken whisper. “You sure? You really don’t have to—if you’re not comfortable—”

You cut him off, placing your hand gently on his thigh, squeezing once, softly. “I want to. I want you, Soobin.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his shoulders melting, and he looks at you like you just handed him the world. His smile is shy, crooked, his eyes shining with something soft and scared and so full of want.

“Okay,” he says, voice trembling with hope, his hand finding yours on his leg. “Okay.”

You stay like that for a moment—close, trembling, the world spinning slow and bright around you, the promise of everything you’ve both been craving almost within reach.

You don’t hesitate, not now—not when the air is already humming with want, not when Soobin’s eyes are glued to your mouth, hungry and blown. You drop onto your knees between his legs, the carpet scratching your bare knees through your skirt, your fingers already reaching for the button on his jeans. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe this is really happening, chest heaving, jaw slack.

Your hands are shaky, but his are steadier—he lifts his hips to help you, lets you slide his jeans down his thighs, then his boxers, your knuckles brushing the soft hair just above his cock. And fuck—he’s even bigger than you expected, thick and heavy, his cock springing up against his stomach, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking.

You hesitate for a second, just taking him in, biting your glossed lips. Soobin is panting, his eyes wild, hands gripping the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles whiten. He’s so pretty like this—vulnerable and desperate, a little shy but so, so fucking needy.

You wrap your hand around him, fingers barely able to circle his girth, stroking him slow at first, watching his eyes flutter closed, his head falling back against the wall. He lets out a sound—half-whimper, half-moan—then bites his fist to stifle it, but you can still hear every shaky breath.

You lean in, lips brushing the slick head, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of precum gathered there. Soobin shudders, hips jerking, his hand flying to your shoulder, gripping tight like he’s afraid you’ll stop.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, voice all velvet and need. “God, you—oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

You grin, feeling a little drunk on the way he looks at you, the way he falls apart with just the gentlest touch. You lick again, swirling your tongue around the fat crown, collecting every drop, then dragging your lips down his shaft, sucking a bruise into the sensitive underside. His hips jerk again, thighs tense under your hands.

You stroke him with both hands, twisting at the base, your mouth working the tip, messy and slow. Every time you glance up, you catch Soobin’s eyes locked on your tits, the way your top slips lower with every movement, glossy lips wrapped around his cock, spit dribbling down your chin. His jaw is slack, cheeks pink, sweat beading at his hairline.

He lets out a string of curses, all breathy and wrecked. “Shit—your mouth—fuck, you look so hot. Can’t believe you’re doing this for me. Can’t believe how good you are, fuck, fuck—”

You pull back, spit shining on your lips, smirk curling. “You like that, Soobin?”

He moans, nodding hard, hips twitching up into your fist. “Yeah, fuck, I like it. God, keep going. Please, please—”

You tease him, dragging your tongue along the vein, kissing the head, sucking hard just to hear him whine. Every time you go deeper, his breath stutters, one hand flying to your hair, not quite pulling but holding, gentle but desperate.

The more you work him, the messier it gets—spit sliding down his shaft, pooling at the base, your hands slick as you jerk him, the lewd squelch of your fist making him groan. Your tits bounce with every movement, and you see his eyes flicker, mouth open, tongue darting out, hungry and desperate.

He starts to lose his composure—his hand tightens in your hair, his hips rock up into your mouth. He groans, deep and low, a filthy sound that sends heat straight between your legs. “Fuck, your tits—can’t stop looking—fuck, you look like a fucking dream. Always wanted to see you like this, mouth full, tits out, taking it like such a good fucking girl.”

His voice cracks, growing rougher, more dominant. “You know how pretty you look? Such a fucking slut for me, aren’t you? God, that mouth is perfect—knew you’d be good, but not this fucking good. Bet you practiced for me, didn’t you?”

You hum around him, throat vibrating, eyes rolling up to meet his, and he loses it—he starts thrusting harder, guiding your head, pushing you down, then pulling you off just enough to watch the spit web from his tip to your lips. He pants, voice ragged. “Open your mouth. Wider. Yeah, fuck—just like that. Let me see you. Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

You obey, tongue out, mouth open wide, letting him slap the fat head against your tongue, smearing precum and spit all over your lips. He groans, deep and broken, both hands in your hair now, holding you steady as he rocks his hips, fucking into your mouth, the head hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck—good girl, take it, take it, fuck—look at those tits, fuck, I want to cum all over them, wanna ruin you—”

You’re drooling now, spit soaking your chest, your top pulled low so your cleavage spills over, the heat in your cheeks matching the wetness between your legs. Soobin’s hands get rougher, guiding your head, rolling his hips with more confidence, the sweet, shy boy you knew melting into something greedy, possessive.

He starts to talk, filthy and nonstop, every word turning you on more. “Bet you like this, huh? Bet you love having my cock in your mouth, messy little slut—can’t wait to see you gag on it, can’t wait to see you drool all over yourself. Want everyone to know what a fucking whore you are for me—fuck, you’re perfect, so fucking perfect.”

You moan around him, feeling his cock twitch, his breath coming faster, hips stuttering. He pulls you off for a moment, watching the string of spit that connects your lips to his tip. He strokes your cheek, thumb smearing gloss and saliva.

“God, you look wrecked already. Want me to fuck your face? You gonna let me use your mouth like a toy?”

You nod, desperate, tongue out, eyes glassy with want. He groans, deep and filthy, one hand sliding down to squeeze your tits, rough and greedy, pinching your nipple until you gasp.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl. Take it. Show me how much you want it.”

He pushes back in, deeper this time, holding your head steady as he fucks your mouth, slow at first, then harder, your nose pressed to his stomach, his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag, eyes watering, but he just moans, petting your hair, praising you through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, just like that—fuck, take it, take it, fuck—you’re so good, so good for me—gonna make me cum, you want that? Want me to fill your mouth, cover those pretty tits, make a mess of you?”

You pull off, breathing hard, spit dripping down your chin and onto your chest, tits shiny and swollen from his touch. You jerk him fast, watching his eyes roll back, his head fall against the wall.

“God, please,” he begs, voice breaking. “Don’t stop—need it, need you, fuck—”

You take him back in, deeper, swirling your tongue, sucking hard, hands working the base, spit running everywhere, eyes locked on his as he loses himself, hips snapping, breath coming in filthy, desperate moans.

The room is filled with wet sounds, the slap of skin, the harsh, dirty words spilling from his lips. He’s not shy anymore—he’s in control, fucking your face, squeezing your tits, marking your skin, telling you exactly how much he loves ruining you.

You stay there, on your knees, mouth and hands and tits covered in spit, Soobin’s cock heavy and hard in your grip, his eyes wild, his words filthy and rough, until you both forget what it’s like to breathe without wanting more.

Soobin’s hands are in your hair now, rough and possessive, his fingers digging in just enough to make your scalp tingle, guiding you with a control he’d never dare show in the daylight. The shy, sweet boy who used to blush at your questions is gone; in his place is someone hungry and wild, hips rolling, voice ragged and filthy as he fucks your face without a hint of shame.

“Yeah—take it, take all of it, fuck,” he groans, breath stuttering. “You look so good like this, fuck, you’re gonna make me cum just from looking at you—look at you, baby, such a messy little slut for me. Fuck—gonna ruin that pretty mouth, cover those tits, you want that? Want me to mark you up so everyone knows you’re mine?”

His cock is heavy and thick, stretching your lips wide, the taste of him bitter and salty on your tongue. Spit and precum smear your chin, glossy and shining in the lamplight, and every time he pulls you down, you feel the head hit the back of your throat, making you gag and drool even more. Your mascara is smudged, your hair a mess, your chest glistening with spit, and Soobin looks absolutely feral.

He’s lost the rhythm—now he’s just chasing the high, rutting up into your mouth with desperate little thrusts, using you, chasing that edge, over and over. His dirty talk only gets nastier:

“Bet you practiced this, didn’t you? Practiced sucking on your fingers thinking about me? Look at you—fuck, such a good girl, such a filthy fucking slut. Mouth so fucking wet for me—yeah, open up, wider, let me see that tongue, fuck—”

You whimper around him, tears prickling your eyes, throat raw but so fucking turned on. He keeps glancing down, watching your tits bounce, your spit dripping down your chest, every sound making him groan even louder.

He pulls you off suddenly, his cock slapping against your cheek, smearing spit and precum over your skin. He wraps your hair in his fist, tilting your face up, jerking himself over your lips.

“Fuck, look at you—mouth open, tits out, so fucking pretty. You love this, don’t you? Love being my cumdump, letting me ruin you. Say it—say you want it.”

Your voice is hoarse, your tongue hanging out, chest heaving. “I want it, Soobin. Please—please cum on me, wanna wear it, wanna be messy for you—”

He growls, low and broken, hips snapping faster, his cock fat and angry in his fist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—look at me—wanna see your eyes—yeah, just like that—gonna cum, baby, gonna fucking cum all over your pretty face, fuck—”

You brace yourself, mouth wide open, eyes locked on his, tits pressed together, letting the cool air make your nipples hard and sensitive. Soobin’s breathing goes ragged, his hand jerking himself at a brutal pace, thumb rubbing over the head, groaning deep in his chest. His body tenses, every muscle flexing, and then—

He cums with a gasp, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, voice breaking into a wild, desperate moan. The first spurt hits your lips, hot and thick, dripping down your chin. The next splatters your cheek, your jaw, sticky and warm, the rest landing messily over your breasts—your cleavage streaked, your top spotted with streaks of white, your skin shining with spit and cum and sweat.

He keeps stroking, desperate to wring out every last drop, watching with wide, wild eyes as it drips from your face to your chest, pooling between your tits, slick and obscene. The lamplight makes everything glisten—your cheeks, your collarbone, your nipples, your hands slick and trembling in your lap.

For a long, breathless moment, the only sound in the room is his harsh panting and your ragged breathing, the faint, wet noises as he finally lets go of your hair and your lips.

Then—just as sudden as the filth started—Soobin changes. His whole body softens, the lust in his eyes melting into fear and care, his hands suddenly gentle, shaking as he reaches for your face. His breath catches, his lips quivering as he takes in the mess he’s made—his cum shining on your cheeks, streaked across your tits, dripping down your sternum.

“Shit—oh my god, are you okay?” His voice is tiny, terrified, all sweetness and panic. “Was I too rough? Did I hurt you? Fuck—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just—shit, I lost control—” He’s already reaching for tissues, frantic, dabbing at your face and chest with shaking hands, his eyes darting everywhere but your own.

You smile, dizzy and fucked-out, catching his wrist with sticky fingers. “I’m fine, Soobin. I promise. You weren’t too rough.” You lick a drop of cum from your lips, grinning shy, and his cheeks burn bright red. “You were perfect.”

His voice shakes, but it’s warm, flooded with relief. “You’re sure? I just—fuck, you look so messy, I—did I go too far? I couldn’t stop, you looked so good, and—” He breaks off, laughing softly, his thumb gentle as he wipes away another streak from your cheek. “Sorry, I just—wanted you so bad, I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I’m so fucking lucky, oh my god.”

You catch his hand, holding it against your cheek, the room spinning with afterglow and care. “I wanted it, Soobin. I loved it. I love seeing you like that. And you… you can always take what you want from me. I trust you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his other hand tangled in your hair. “You’re incredible. Seriously. Thank you.” He glances down at your chest, face still pink, eyes wide with awe and adoration. “You’re… beautiful. Fuck, I’m never going to forget this.”

You giggle, sticky and full of adrenaline, your skin tingling everywhere he’s touched. “You better not. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

He laughs, gentle again, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “You’re amazing. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? I’ll get you some water, and—shit, do you want a shower? Or—uh—my shirt?”

You let him fuss, let him press tissues to your skin, hands soft and trembling, his voice a sweet murmur of apologies and praise, and you realize you wouldn’t trade this mess, this boy, this moment, for anything in the world.

And when you finally stand, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispers, soft and shy:

“Next time, I want to see how much of me you can take.”