mochi

you slid your hand into the bag next to you, although it felt more like a deplenishing, foil carcass as you picked at the chip crumbs left in the bottom. every evening was like this; you sat at your desk, illuminated only by the vibrant, swirling colors of maps and graphs and charts. it wasn’t much, but it was honest work. if you were lucky, all you had to do was flip through traffic cams, monitor live street footage, and polish off whatever snack had been calling your name all day.  

“you gotta train on sixty-first,” you announced, seemingly to no one in the comfort of your bedroom as you popped a pathetic third of a chip into your mouth, “don’t get hit.” 

the little green dot on your computer screen redirected, hooking a sharp left and avoiding the elevated subway track altogether. you rubbed your hands together, partially because you were satisfied with your expert directional skills and partially to clear your fingers of leftover crumbs. in the headset hugging your ears, lively static roared, followed by nicholas’s breathless voice. “can you crunch those chips any louder?” 

“i changed my mind, actually. take a shortcut through sixty-first.” 

nicholas had been the city’s favorite web-slinger for a couple of months, but he had been your best friend for way longer. you were grateful that he trusted you with his secret; you’d met him for a late-night frozen yogurt run, and he had pulled his t-shirt collar to the side in line for the toppings, revealing the royal blue and red that littered every front page of every newspaper. of course, you thought he was pranking you. not because you didn’t think he was capable of being a superhero- there was actually no doubt in your mind about that- but because he was a terrible liar. throughout your entire friendship, nicholas couldn’t so much as swipe a sip of your soda without looking extremely guilty. his hands were always the first giveaway, since they were too steady when he was lying. he overcompensated by seeming too sure of himself, palms pressed flat to his sides, chest puffed. like a caricature of an honest man. but that night, in front of the chocolate sprinkles and the gummy worms, his fingers trembled as he pulled the shirt collar away from his neck. his voice waivered when he asked, “are you upset with me?” 

you hadn’t been upset with him; you could not have possibly been. instead, you were upset with yourself. of course, you had noticed his absence when he skipped your friend group’s weekly game nights. you’d searched for him at every party, even when he had texted you some loose excuse about dog sitting or working extra hours, but you had never asked him about the dog or how his shift went. you’d never showed any interest about any of it. your ignorance to his situation made you feel like an awful, terrible friend, one whom nicholas still, for some reason, confided in. he had trusted you to not only keep his secret but to help him navigate his newfound responsibility, all from the comfort of your apartment. you had been upset with yourself, too, for the dull ache in your chest when you realized he wasn’t confessing something else to you in line for frozen yogurt.

you watched the green dot continue its consistent strides across your screen, the balmy beep of his vitals in the bottom left corner pacifying any nerves you might have had over the speed of his swings. his pulse was impressively steady at such heights, spiking only just before his webs made contact with the next rooftop, as if his new instincts might fail him. “you’re funny,” his voice cut through again, zero traces of humor in his tone, “you chew loud as fuck, though.” 

“i can hear every time you fart in the suit, by the way,” you added, fishing for another chip just to add fuel to the fire, “you’re disgusting.” 

“i’d like to see you try doing this shit without letting a little something slip,” nicholas countered, and you could hear the smile in his voice. you tracked the moving dot before you with the sounds of his webs stretching beneath his weight, “and i bet you’ve heard worse than that in your little eavesdropping sessions.” 

“yeah, i wish you’d stop doing that,” you sighed into your mic, leaning back in your chair. 

“what?” nicholas’s smirk was audible, his arrogance dripping through your headset, “having sex with other girls? are you jealous?” 

“having sex in the suit,” you pulled the mic as close to your mouth as you could, just to get it through his skull. one aspect of nicholas’s superhero persona that you didn’t fully expect was the amplified sex appeal. he had always been attractive, even when the two of you were in school. your classmates, all the way through university, would befriend you with the sole intentions of asking you to set them up with him. so while you were very popular for all the wrong reasons, nicholas bled charisma in sweatpants and a hoodie and basically had to scrape suitors off his arm at every turn. you admitted it- nicholas was hot, and, if it were possible, he was even hotter bound by spandex, the ridges of his muscles and slopes of his body taut and accentuated by the textured fabric. 

nicholas hesitated, most likely waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. “if it helps, i take the suit off. mask stays on, though. don’t you worry.” 

you were all too familiar with the fact that he kept the mask on during his activities. only one time had you been concerned with the stationary nature of his tracker and the quick increase of his heartrate and slipped your headset over your ears. you’d received your answer before you could even ask what the holdup was, the moans and panting enough to tell you all you needed to know. you had swiped the headset off your ear so fast that you almost ignored the heat that pooled in your stomach, the twitch in your finger that wanted to reach for the headphones again. your mind betrayed you that night, conjuring flashes of nicholas’s sculpted torso, damp with sweat, and his thighs flexing, shifting that one delicious vein on his hip you’d mentally traced a thousand times. you should have known he would have turned the spiderman image into some kind of fetish, and you should have known you’d fall for it. and more. “it doesn’t help, and i am worried,” you said, , “it is my only job to make sure you don’t get, like, sniped or flattened. the least you could do is send a text.” 

“right, you’re right,” nicholas sighed to himself, “i’ll text next time and let you know i’m getting my web shooters unclogged.” 

“shit,” you muttered, sitting up straight in your desk chair. you swiped the almost empty chip bag away from your keyboard, blowing a direct gust of air over the keys to clear it of stray crumbs. 

nicholas sucked his teeth, “didnt like that one? what about ‘my spidey senses are tinglinggggg’?” 

you scrolled through the panel of security footage on your screen, the black and white boxes winking with commotion. people shuffled past, frantic and panicked. bulky figures stood brazen in the center of a convenience store, masks pulls over their faces and weapons in hand. you zoomed in on the pixelated image; hunkered behind barely stocked shelves were civilians. “nicholas,” you steadied your voice, a contrast to his joking, lilted tone, “there’s a robbery at the corner store about five blocks from you, th-the one with the mural and the backwards toilet.”

outside your window, the sun had long been set, but the city was alive, bright. streetlights flickered, bike bells clinked over the constant whir of traffic. the corner store was close to your apartment. you passed it every day on your walk home, and the owner would usually let you swipe a candy bar if you came in late enough. if you were bordering on drunk after a long night of bar hopping with nicholas, he would slide you a cold bottle of water. you watched nicholas, his green dot, shift directions, swinging at impressive and impending speeds toward the store. he asked, “how many?” 

“looks like four,” you gnawed on the inside of your cheek, “they’re armed, nico. try not to escalate anything. it looks like a hostage situation.” 

armed was a bit of an understatement. whatever these guys were up to, this stunt at the store was merely a test run. their weapons were unlike anything you’d seen, far from the typical handgun you’d seen nicholas satiate with a web a dozen times, and even further from a crowbar or pocket knife; these guys weilded otherworldly weaponry. literally. they radiated white-hot power, barrels glowing even in the grainy security footage, the existence of which made you even more skeptical about their intentions. one of the guys wore a device as a backpack, a nozzle connected to a tube slithering around his shoulders. you’d bet it was venomous, too. this type of villain was far beyond your pay-grade, which was a net zero dollars, and even further beyond your scope of knowledge. it seemed… wrong. all of it, but nicholas was already in pursuit, already touching down at the scene. 

you watched with your hand partially covering your face as nicholas, barely rendered in black and white, slipped through a broken window behind the men. his broad frame peeked from either side of the metal shelving as he slinked toward the civilians in the corner, lingering in the plentiful blindspots provided by their masks. through your headset, you could hear muffled and muddled speech, panicked gasps, and nicholas’s soothing voice promising safety. you knew he would provide, even if it put himself in danger. he whispered, knowing you could see him on the camera, “they’ve got the owner up front. think i can sneak these three out the way i came in?”  

“if you can do it while they’re distracted,” you kept your voice low, even though no one could possibly hear you but him, “and be careful.”

distracted was not the word you would use to describe them, though, as they cornered the store owner at the front counter. if they wanted the money in the safe, all they needed to do was melt the lock with the atomic goo shooter they each had resting under their arms. there was zero need for a combination, for a show like this. it was a display of force, of power. it was a trap. and you caught onto it too late, just as nicholas ushered the group of three hostages in a cluster on the back wall toward the gap in the shattered store window. 

your voice roared to life in his ear, “wait, nico-” 

and then everything fell apart. you watched, eyes unfaltering with horror, as nicholas all but threw the civilians out of the store. you knew they’d need stitches from the glass lining the window and the shards on the sidewalk outside, but at least they were alive, something you could only hope for nicholas as he ducked behind a shelf, shooting a web from his hand and pulling another toward him as a barricade. in your headset, you could hear him grunting, and you could hear the commotion in tandem with the shaking, blurry footage before you. it’s spiderman! get him! the men corralled around him, zapping their weapons in an intimidating performance. nicholas cleared his throat, his pulse spiking, “you gotta catch me first, idiots.” 

the scene erupted in mayhem; nicholas pulled two displays down on top of the guys, using their magazine covered bodies as a trampoline as he cleared his way to the other side of the room, throwing various snack and tourist items at the remaining two guys, the plastic wrapped sweets and handheld fans bouncing gracefully off their chests. you heard the hum of their weapons before you saw it, and you could only imagine how bright the glow was up-close. in a blaze of destruction, you watched nicholas evade the hot kiss of fire, basically running on top of the closely arranged shelving, his arms working faster than his brain. thankfully. “hey! that’s not fair,” he yelped, “i dont have a big fancy plasma ray!”

and then it all went dark- the footage ceased, leaving nothing but an empty, static hum. you flipped through the other cameras nearby, still hearing the clattering and zapping and whirring of whatever extraterrestrial technology nicholas was up against, but ultimately found nothing. you fullscreened his vitals, “i lost visual. get out of there, nicholas. im serious.” all you could do was wait. you slipped the headset off your ears, but you could still hear the faint grunting and smart-ass one-liners, watching as his heartrate spiked with the clatter, as his blood pressure dropped, as his respitatory rate climbed higher and higher. you had tunnel vision on that little blinking green dot in the center of chaos. it seemed to stir in circles, an endless loop from one corner of the room to another. you wondered how many times it could spin before it would eventually stop. 

you wondered and wondered until, finally, it did. after what felt like hours, the commotion on the other end ceased, the digital green fleck stalling out in an alleyway a block down. you weren’t sure when he had left the shop or how you’d missed it, but, thankfully, he was out of there. he wasn’t running, but his heart was thumping a mile a minute. and so was yours. you slipped the headset back on with a pit low in your stomach and whispered, “nico?” 

his breathing was ragged on the other side, and you could barely make out what he was saying, as if his earpiece got knocked loose, “how about, ‘getting a bit sticky tonight’?” 

“what?” 

“so you don’t intrude on my hookups,” he winced, “what if i texted you that im ‘getting sticky’? does that sound good?”

“that sounds fucking awful,” you admitted, the heaving of your chest evening out the more he talked. at least you knew he wasn’t too injured to be a dumbass. “they’re all terrible.” 

he chuckled to himself, and the sound made your breath catch in your throat. he had always been the full package: handsome, genuine, funny. the two of you could make a joke out of nothing and laugh until your sides stitched, smacking one another when your cackling fizzled into gasps. you’d be absolutely breathless, wiping your tears with your shirt. then, nicholas would wipe his tears with your shirt. and it would all start again. that kind of chemistry only found you once, and you’d refused to ever let him go. it pained you to hear his laugh, now, stifled by whatever injuries he’d sustained in the corner store. he coughed, sighing deep. you asked, “are you okay?” 

“took a ray gun to the shoulder,” nicholas’s voice was weak, amplified by the terrible sound quality, “better that than the ass, though. that’s what i always say.” 

“be serious with me. is it bad?” you stood up as you interrogated him, picking mindlessly at your fingernails. it felt like the city had surrendered, suddenly too quiet. the streetlamps hummed louder, traffic slowing. “can you swing home?” 

nicholas inhaled deep, heaving and huffing as he lifted himself off the ground. he choked out a pained noise, and you could practically imagine him doubled over, holding his shoulder like it would numb some of his pain. the beeping on your screen increased rapidly as he stood, his heartrate quickly surpassing yours. “fuck,” he gulped, “no, i can’t. i could try-”

“don’t,” you blurted before he could even consider making any of his injuries worse, for his own sake and for the sake of the community he swore to protect when he put on the suit. and for your sake, as well. the last thing you needed was him losing his strength mid-swing. “walk to mine- my roommate’s out for a few days.”

you expected a fight. you basically heard him nagging, you want me to walk to your apartment, suit out and everything? as if there weren’t spiderman impersonators on every corner. no one would have batted an eye. instead of arguing, nicholas caved with an exhausted sigh. “okay,” he sniffled, and it broke your heart. 

when you saw nicholas again, he was in color: royal blue, black, and so much more red than you were used to. he’d had enough strength reserved to climb your building’s fire escape and rap three times on your window. it was still cracked at the bottom, just enough for you to slot your fingers in and push the rest of the way up, revealing his masked face. a precautionary strand of web billowed in the city’s warm breaths, one he used to tether himself to the building, just in case. you held out a shaking hand to him, and you were thankful your heartrate wasn’t the one displayed on the computer across the room when he took it. his hands were warm even through the material of the suit, damp with what you hoped was sweat. you steadied him as he slipped through the window frame, and he let you. 

his injuries were worse than he claimed. ‘ray gun to the shoulder’ your ass. his shoulder was not the only place he was hit with a ray gun. his suit was tattered to bit on his torso, his shin, and the side of his mask was scorched, tattered down to his neck. you grabbed his face, instinctively, rolling the material around his neck up and up, slowly in case you revealed any new, secret lacerations. when you pulled the mask the rest of the way off his head, his hair poofed to life, falling almost perfectly over his sticky forehead, into his red-brimmed eyes. your fingers gently grabbed his chin, turning his head from side-to-side, scanning for signs of hurt but finding only a scratch in front of his ear and a cut on his lip. blood pooled there as he let a smile overtake his tired face, red teeth still shining as he asked, “what’s the damage, doc?” 

“not sure,” you said, tongue prodding your cheek as you feigned concern, “does this hurt?” you stuck your finger in your mouth, and then you stuck your finger in his ear. nicholas gasped, tucking his head into his shoulder and shoving your hand away. and then, he winced, coughing out a laugh and ghosting his palm over his stomach. seeing him in pain was worlds worse than hearing him. his brows seemed permanently creased, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, both from the fight and having to keep himself upright after. he didn’t have to do that, anymore, at least not by himself. “show me,” you coaxed. 

nicholas stepped out of what was left of the suit, kicking it absentmindedly under your bed if only to distract from the fact that he was bloodied and bruised and standing in nothing but his boxers. and you were so fucking close to him, warm hands smoothing over his neck, down his chest, picking up his hands and inspecting every individual knuckle on his fingers. you bent them, squeezed them. you spun him around to check his sides, traced the dip in the center of his back. that one might have been selfish, but it had to be done. checking reflexes, or whatever. there were reflexes in your back, right? 

his shins were merely scraped, as if he’d tripped in a parking lot. his shoulder, however, was worse than you anticipated, the gash deep and trickling a thick stream of blood down his arm now that the suit was no longer there to absorb it. you told him to stay, like a newly trained puppy, even though you knew he wouldn’t- couldn’t- go anywhere, and you slipped into the next room to grab whatever first-aid supplies you could find. some of the items you grabbed weren’t even first-aid, but you couldn’t think straight knowing your best friend was possibly bleeding out in your bedroom. and when you returned to the room, nicholas had slumped down into the floor, leaning back against the side of your bed. his head was leaned forward, legs outstretched before him. you’d sat with him like that before, once, when the two of you ate a little bit too much of a brownie your mutual friend had made. you stared out the window until the sun came up, unsure if you blinked even once the whole night. nicholas said you did, so you did. 

“still with me?” you half-joked as you crouched down in front of him. you dumped the supplies in a messy pile beside him, scrunching an old towel on the floor under his elbow to soak up the dripping blood. 

“i fucked it up,” he mumbled, voice quiet but broken, “the suit, and the mask. its all fucked.” 

“hey,” you put your hand on his other shoulder, a different kind of burning, and squeezed gently, “we’ll fix it.” 

you reached for a cloth, warm and wet, and wiped at the dried blood on his bicep. soft, delicate swirls on his skin left angry red splotches, like his cheeks when he was embarrassed or too sweaty. and when you inched closer to the wound itself, your touch was tender, like he was fragile. in many ways, he was- he just refused to show it. like any mask, his occasionally cracked, letting you see fragments of the turmoil beneath his cool, unbothered exterior. you dabbed the cloth against the gash in his skin, just once to see if the blood had stopped flowing, and nicholas’s entire body jerked beneath you. he sucked in a breath through stained, gritted teeth. you squeezed his other shoulder again, whispering, “sorry.” 

“you’ll fix it, you mean,” nicholas grumbles, keeping his head hanging carelessly on its axis, “that’s how this works. i mess things up, and you fix them.” he leaned his head back, then, against the side of your bed. for the first time all night, his gaze fell on yours, and he was so tired. in more ways than one. you furrowed your brows, taken aback by the sudden deprecation. 

“you don’t mess things up,” you were careful not to let your exterior split, not to let him see how deep that assumption really cut you. you reached for the bottle of saline solution and gently poured it over his shoulder. nicholas squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hand into a fist under you. a curse or two tumbled from his lips, but you couldn’t hear them over your repeated sorry, sorry, sorry as the liquid seeped in and around the cut. with most of the blood wiped away, it didn’t look nearly as bad. you breathed a sigh of relief, reaching for the roll of gauze next to you. “good news. i don’t think you’ll need stitches.” 

nicholas frowned, watching you roll out a small patch in your hands. “see,” he muttered, “fixing it right now.” even though your hands were shaking, even though you couldnt find the end of the roll to start unraveling it. you were a fumbling mess under his attention, but he didn’t care. he only saw the good parts of you, his gentle and attentive friend. even as you sat between his legs, skin sticking to him from the proximity and the growing heat of the room, he saw only his best friend. 

“stop acting like that, nico.” 

“like what?”

“like you aren’t important to people," your voice cracked with the volume, hushed but desperate. you wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, but you couldn’t. he’d bleed again, and you’d have to get another towel and start this whole process over again. you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, attempting to disrupt the tension you’d accidentally brewed, like thick wine. “like you don’t save people.” 

“are you being serious right now?” nicholas tilted his head toward you, pressing you to make eye contact with him, even as he winced from the pull of his muscle. you kept your eyes focused on taping the gauze to his skin, like if you pulled your attention from the area, it would erupt. it would consume him entirely, like he was consuming you, his stare bearing into the skin of your cheek as you gnawed on it. nicholas blinked once, like he couldn’t believe you, “because i can’t do shit without you. all i have is sticky hands, and i had a cool suit before i got fucking knocked around like a ragdoll for an hour. all because i got the security camera shot and you couldn’t tell me what to do.” 

“you’re mad because i help you?” you flickered your eyes to his briefly and entirely on accident. from his tone, you expected fire, but you found only a glossy veneer over the dark, hazy eyes you knew so well. 

“no,” nicholas said, firmly. it was the most sure he’d sounded all night, or possibly ever. “i’m upset because i need you to help me. i need you to watch traffic cams so i don’t get flattened by a bus while i’m running from my problems. i need you to tell me when someone needs help because my spidey senses tap out at, like, two miles. i need you to tell me where to go when i’m all turned around. i’m not the hero- you are.” 

he let the tears fall as he spoke, lip quivering and hands shaking in an honest confession. he’d been vulnerable with you before, letting you see him cry during sad movies and admitting when one of your other friends hurt his feelings in passing. you’d been there for him after every breakup he’d endured and caused. you were no stranger to his emotions, but the culmination of events made this moment much more intense. it didn’t help that your nerves were wired so tight they might snap. nicholas shook under your touch as you taped the last strip over the gauze on his shoulder. good as new. nicholas inhaled, throat constricting the breath until it shook. he let his fingers wander to the hem of your shorts, pulling at the fabric to get your attention, “are you upset with me?” 

the tears welled in your eyes, too, as you wiped one stray droplet from the top of his splotchy cheek with your thumb. you let it dry on the pad of your finger. you said, the most sure you’d sounded all night, or possibly ever, “no.” 

you dragged your eyes up his neck as his throat bobbed, uncertainly, and your lips curled into a reassuring smile as you met his gaze again. there was a film over him, like sepia, like the color had been peeled from his face, until you cupped his cheek with your hand, smoothing your fingertips over the scratch in front of his ear. nicholas didn’t wince, only held his eyes steady on yours, fingers still drawing small circles on your thigh, just below the edge of your shorts. you leaned forward and dropped your head to his chest, resting your cheek on his skin, tacky with sweat, as your arms curled around his sides. nicholas lifted his good hand and placed it, naturally, between your shoulderblades, making languid strokes down your spine as you nestled into him. your voice was small as you spoke again, “you’re more than just spiderman, nicholas. i need you to know that.” 

“i know,” he whispered, “i’m also a major sex symbol.” and then he laughed, lightly. he laughed as much as he could without it hurting deep in his core where bruises would later bloom. 

“i’m being serious, nico,” you muttered, lightly smacking his back, “even if some people only see you as a piece of ass in spandex, they’d love you without the mask, too.” 

in the silence that lingered, you assumed nicholas was thinking about how to turn the fact that you called him a “piece of ass” around on you. it was a prime opportunity to make you regret being nice to him, to make you revoke all sincerity in the foreseeable future, but nicholas’s chest rose and fell in solid, pondering swells. you heard him open his mouth, inhale, and then abandon the idea. he did this three times in the silence, his hand stalling on your spine. and when he spoke, finally, his voice was hoarse, “do you?” 

“do i what?” 

“love me?” nicholas gulped, rigid under you, “without the mask?” 

you didn’t have to think about it, “yes.” 

you loved him completely and in a way even you didn’t fully understand. you would have done anything for him, knowing he felt the same about you because you were best friends. you’d signed a contract as children, one that was sealed in blood from a papercut binding the two of you together forever. you remembered something in there about getting married if you both reached a certain age without finding true love, along with standard bff contract business that swore loyalty to the other person and described snack-sharing laws; he would always take any flavor that was blue, and you would have first dibs on any red. you adhered to every detail in the contract even now, cutting the red and blue gummy worms in half at the frozen yogurt shop after he’d revealed his life-altering secret to you. and it was incredibly difficult to cut the worms after they’d been sitting in the frozen treats, but you did it anyway, sealed in blood. but you were acutely aware that you loved him in ways that exceeded that contract. you’d grown to love him in a real, authentic way. you’d imagined loving him for the rest of your life, and you’d felt ridiculous for it. 

nicholas’s heart slammed against his ribcage, over and over and over beneath your ear. you didn’t need the vitals on your computer to know his heartrate was through the roof. with a croak, he prompted, “in what way?” 

“well,” you tried to control the wave in your voice. in the same way you knew nicholas was lying when his hands were steady, he knew you were lying when your voice faltered. you were forever grateful that you rarely found the need to lie to him. you weren’t lying now, but it felt like you were omitting the truth. your voice was partially shaking as you gave him a half-lie. “you’re my best friend.” 

he traced his fingertips down your spine again. “and?” 

you sat up from your place between his thighs, peeling your cheek from his chest and feeling off-kilter from the warmth on one side of your face. you looked him in the eyes, keeping your expression soft despite your confusion. you could’t decipher his intentions. what would he gain from knowing your true feelings? unless he, too, had been keeping secrets from you. unless nicholas had been harboring feelings for you in a pit in his stomach just like you. unless nicholas had been pushing down the urge to hold your hand as you walked to the corner store just like you. there was only one way to find out, and the benefit of a near-death experience was that all confessions and actions could be retrospectively blamed on the adrenaline spike and confrontation with mortality. you pulled your eyes from his, flickering your attention to his lips for a fraction of a second, the spark of a dull match before the winning strike. but when your eyes returned, his were on your lips, too. and they stayed there. the match was blazing, curling in on itself, scorched and wilting the same way your tongue felt as it let the word tumble out, “and.” 

the way nicholas kissed you was the stuff of dreams, in that every touch was subtle; every choice was perceptive as he slotted his lips, gently, between yours. neither of you moved at first, simply swimming in the idea of it all. the taste of him made you dizzy, how sweet he was beneath the initial tang of metal, like the cheap chocolate coins you’d found at the store when you were younger that were shrouded in a contagious foil wrapper. the first press of his lips to yours was like peeling away the metallic, protective layer. nicholas pulled away, tentatively, before brushing his lips against yours, once and then twice, like he was testing the waters. it was you that made the second move, angling your head to capture his mouth in a kiss just as soft as the first. he sighed into you, his breath tickling your face as his hands settled low on your hips. 

you hummed against him, letting your body finally relax into his kiss, his touch. it felt strange, in the unfamiliar sense and nowhere near the wrong one. nicholas once confessed that it was unusual that the two of you had never “experimented,” that all close friends have kissed once or twice just to see. you’d laughed it off, then, but it was all beginning to make sense now. he was incredibly drunk when he said that, so gone that he probably didn’t even remember it, and you never brought it up, thinking you were preserving his dignity, that he would have been so humiliated to have even suggested kissing you. you wished that you could go back in time and tell that version of you to bring it up. bring it up as soon as humanly possible. you pressed your palms against his chest, sliding them up around the back of his neck at the same time you bumped your tongue against his lips. 

and when nicholas let you in, he let you in fully. the slide of his tongue against yours was electric, softly licking into your mouth and sending charged sparks to your belly like a livewire. you sucked his tongue deeper into you, and nicholas moaned. the sound was softer than you anticipated, less intense than you’d imagined. it was even less confident than you’d heard before, that fateful evening you had slipped the headset on and invaded his valuable privacy. this version of nicholas was unguarded, raw, yours. this version of nicholas was barely holding it together as you climbed further into his lap, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him deeper into the kiss. it was slow, sweet, and kind of messy, noses bumping in time with your overlapping sighs and moans. it was a perfect song. 

nicholas disconnected from you, resting his forehead on yours as you brushed the hair from sticking to the side of his face. he squeezed your waist, flitting his eyes to yours to gauge your reaction as he breathed, like a whisper, “i love you. i’ve loved you for a long time, i think,” he licked his lips, pressing them together into a thin line, “just didn’t know it.” 

you thought of every time you searched for him in a crowded room, especially the times you never found him. you thought of every protective arm thrown over your shoulder on your walks home. you thought of the years of heartfelt “goodnight” and “get home safe” conversations on the front stoop of your apartment, neither of you having the courage to say i love you, afraid of what it might really mean. even though you meant it with every shared meal, every impromptu sleepover, and every game thrown during game nights just to see the other beaming with pride. 

“i love you, too,” your smile felt like it was going to split your head right down the center, “i think.” you knew. but you understood how scary it must have been for him to tell you how he felt. you, however, were perfectly fine swallowing it down forever. for nicholas, if he confessed and you didn’t feel the same, he would have lost more than just the “brains” of his spiderman gig- he would've risked losing his best friend, too, although you couldn’t imagine a world where you cut nicholas off for any reason, especially for something as sweet as having a crush on you. he knew too much about you, anyhow, had endured too many of your late-night conspiracy theories and stress-induced breakdowns to get off the hook that easily. 

“don’t feel like you have to say it,” nicholas pulled back, letting you fully see his face, his serious, stern expression, “especially since i, like, cried and stuff.” 

“you cried?” you feigned ignorance, casting a curious glance at the ceiling and tapping your chin with an animated finger, “i don’t remember that, sorry.”

“right, right,” nicholas smiled, dropping his head to hide the flush on his cheeks, “i said that i was useless. do you remember that?”

“mhm,” you nodded, brows furrowing. you couldn’t tell where he was going with this, but you feared he was going to spiral again. luckily, you had a lot of practice keeping him afloat. you smoothed your hands down his neck as he manually turned the gears in his head. 

“okay,” nicholas’s hands cautiously slid beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely breaching the curve of your waist where the band of your shorts rested, folded over from leaning onto him. you sucked in a short gasp at the contact, feeling the goosebumps prickle your hot skin. “i said that i need you,” he squeezed your sides, pulling you closer to him. his voice was soft, breath fanning over your neck, “remember that?” 

nicholas tugged your waist until you were situated fully against him, straddling the plush expanse of his thighs, now painfully aware of just how clothed you were in comparison to the thin boxers hugging his figure. there had to be a way to wear clothes under the suit, but you didn’t care enough to find one, selfishly drinking in every inch of his soft, partially scraped and bruised skin. you’d never been able to touch him, not really. nicholas, on the other hand, was physically affectionate with you in ways you couldn’t even comprehend, constantly draping an arm over your shoulder or kicking your leg, playfully. you were afraid of what would happen if you did the same, if your arm would burst into a torch or your head would explode, like fireworks. because that would happen to you, of course. but now you were free to roam with selfish hands. you raked your fingertips up his sides, and the flames never came, but the fireworks did; they sparked low in your core as nicholas urged you even closer, settling you right above the obvious tent in his boxers. “is this okay?” he whispered, just for you. 

outside, the city stirred in short bursts of life. the warm breeze evolved into a rainstorm, the mellow pattering of droplets on the fire escape punctuating the sounds of your breathing, your gasps. “perfect,” you whispered back. you held his face in your hands, committing him to memory, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself since your feelings for him started shifting from friend to something else. you allowed yourself to kiss him again, slotting your lips into his, parting them and sliding your tongue over his. chocolate coins, blue gummy candy, cold water, rain on asphalt. you moaned into his mouth before you had even moved your hips, overwhelmed by him alone. but when you finally sank down, pressing your aching core against the strained outline of his cock, you felt the flames ignite. they started at your fingertips, threading through his hair and keeping his mouth moving hungrily on yours, and they traveled up your arms to your chest, where your heart threatened to either leap out of your ribs or fall flat into your stomach. and the flames settled in a blazing bouquet of heat right above your hips, where the friction of nicholas’s twitching cock nudged your clit in mind-numbing strokes. even through your shorts, you felt all of him, but you wanted more. 

“fuck,” nicholas’s hips twitched beneath you, tipping his head back with his eyes squeezed shut, “need to feel you. c-can you ride me?” 

“nico,” you rocked your hips, slowly, over him, shaking your head, “i don’t want to hurt you. let’s take it slow, yeah?” his wounds were still fresh, and you could only guess the places he’d be bruised tomorrow- his stomach, his ribs. the last thing you wanted to do was put him in any more pain, strain his body. 

“you won’t hurt me,” he whined, “well, you might, but i don’t care. i’ve been taking it slow for years.” nicholas dropped his hands from your waist to your ass, taking two fistfuls of your flesh and squeezing, mumbling against your lips, “i don’t want to wait anymore.” 

who were you to deny him? who were you to deny yourself? 

“okay, nico,” you breathed. you realized that this was one of many firsts: your first time with nicholas, your first time being on top with anyone, and, most prominently, your first time being nervous around him. he was magnetic and forgiving, and you were rarely afraid to be yourself around him. you doubted the existence of a judgmental bone in his perfect, fragile body. nicholas knew how to make you feel at home, how to ease your mind in unfamiliar situations. he held your hand when you first tried ice skating, and he didn’t laugh when you busted your ass eight times on the frozen rink. he helped you back up, both hands interlaced with yours, and kept you steady. you hoped he would do the same now, and you weren’t far off, his palms sliding, comfortingly, down your calves as you stood up from his lap to shimmy out of your shorts. 

it felt like autopilot, the way you’d played out these initial moments in your head dozens of times, all in a dreamlike haze and never reaching the good parts. it was like a poorly filmed highlight reel of nicholas’s mouth on your neck, clumsy hands getting caught in your bra, and the empty collision of bodies. you’d wake each morning feeling more frustrated than the last, logging onto your computer in the evening to casually track his every movement like you weren’t going to dream that night of elaborate weddings and lingering stares. but nothing compared to the reality, the electric nerves and adrenaline of having his calloused fingers striking, like matches, on your legs. your dreams couldnt imitate the fuzzy, fluttering pit in your chest as nicholas stared, fully rapt, fully captured by you, watching with his mouth softly agape as you stepped out of your underwear. 

if you could have slithered into his brain, you would have drowned beneath the overwhelming shroud of regret, swirling around in his skull like a swarm. the buzzing would have rattled you senseless. nicholas had more regrets than he cared to count, many of which concerned the type of socks he wore inside of his shoes and buying collectibles when his bank account begged him to buy some produce instead. his gut had regrets, too. but at the very center of the swarm, the queen, was how long he’d went denying his feelings for you. he had brushed his butterflies off as misfire, as sheer happiness. other people felt tingly when they hung out with their friends, too. he convinced himself that it was totally normal to lose all rational thinking within three feet of you. on any other occasion, he would have just asked you, as though you were his own personal search engine, but he couldn’t call you and ask what the movie you had just watched was about because he didn’t pay a lick of attention to anything that wasn’t you. when nicholas researched it himself, his i cant think straight around my best friend searches yielded results like you’re fucked, pal. and he so was. he regretted being in so deep and pushing it down, fucking other girls to get a reaction out of you like an asshole. because you were kind, you never gave him one. because you were perfect, you gave him shit for it, way less than he deserved. and now, he was sitting, weak in every way and completely at your mercy, grateful you were trusting him with your body, that you felt the same way for him. he regretted that, too, that he’d wasted so much time thinking you could never love him back. he wanted to lean over, pat the side of his head two times like a cartoon character, and let all his regrets spill out like scrabble pieces for you to see. instead, he slid his hands up the backs of your thighs, diligently, like it was second nature to pull you closer to him, and pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. he whispered against the tender, sensitive skin there, “my beautiful girl,” and hoped that would remedy the buzzing in his head. 

it did nothing to dull the buzzing in your belly, however; the intimate gesture only turned your insides over and over. his hair tickled your thighs as his pressed gentle kisses up and up, until his breath was ghosting over the soaked, puffy lips of your pussy. you resisted the urge to squeeze your legs together, already kind of embarrassed by how wet he had made you from nothing but jutting the outline of his cock against you and confessing. it was one thing to hear that he loved you; it was an entirely different thing to feel it, the warm, feather of a kiss he pressed to the top of your pussy. a shudder racked down your spine, mirroring the vibration of his voice as he asked, “is this okay?” 

you peered down at him, threading your fingers in the back of his hair. “perfect,” you said, again, and nicholas smiled, the expression bleeding all the way into his eyes. he dipped his tongue between your still slick folds, slowly drawing the hot muscle over your clit with a groan, one of pure gratification. like licking brownie batter off the spoon, he plunged his tongue deeper into you, curling it around the sensitive bud at the precipice until you were rocking, gingerly, on his mouth. 

he said, “so fucking sweet, baby,” and you felt your knees tremble beneath you, “soaking wet, sliding around on my tongue.” you curled your fingers in his hair as he hummed into your heat. the rumble of his voice went straight to your empty hole, pulsing around nothing. his lips drove you insane on a normal day- sweet, plump, and so expressive that you could read him from across the room- but, now, as he sucked your clit between them, his tongue flitting against it and twisting that molten coil inside of you, you were positive that he could have simply kissed you to orgasm. not that you would know, since he detached his lips from you just as the pleasure began to build, just as your chest began to swell unevenly, just as your hips moved with a mind of their own, chasing your high on his tongue. “not yet, angel.” 

compared to the smug expression on his face, you were undoubtedly scowling. nicholas reached for your hand, sliding it out of his hair and to his lips instead. he pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, hoping it would dissolve the exasperated glare you were boring into him but knowing it would make him feel better about his selfish decision to want to feel your orgasm rather than taste it. although, he planned to do that, too, on a separate occasion when his shoulder was healed and he could prop your legs up around his neck and push you over the edge until you couldn’t think anymore. but for now, he soothed your annoyance with a small smile, trying to ignore how painfully hard he was in his boxers. there were many ways to fix that, but he was only interested in one. he tugged your hand until you were back on the floor with him, on your knees between his legs, just as you were earlier as you cleaned his wounds, as you tended to him like a book with a weathered spine. he would never deserve you- nicholas was certain of this. he was also certain that he was going to die if he didn’t feel you around him soon. 

and you felt the same; nicholas noticed the way you glanced down at his lap, at the outline of his dick constricted by thin material, mind running wild. from what you’d felt, you were positive he was going to split you in two, but you also knew he would piece you back together afterwards. you leaned forward, feeling your slick leak onto the inside of your thighs as you dipped your fingers into his boxers, pulling them down just enough to uncover his cock. he was beyond hard, tip leaking onto his stomach from a torturous ensnarement and shining glossy red like a coveted valentines candy. you thought about the contract, about how you had dibs on anything red. 

you thought he would come right then, as you wrapped your fist around his base. it was like he hadn’t been touched in ages when you knew from personal experience that he’d been messing around in the suit. but he never sounded like this when you’d accidentally tuned in, so unguarded and desperate that even the slightest graze of your hand made his hips buck. he sucked in a sharp breath, pinching his eyes closed. “you’re killing me.” 

“just returning the favor, dickhead,” you taunted, mourning your ruined orgasm as you stroked him, slowly. you let your lips brush against his, whispering over the sound of his panting, “or, what? did you want to come, too?” 

“f-fuck you,” nicholas rolled his eyes and then his hips, chasing your hand as you teased him, “or fuck me. please, fuck me.”  

only because he said “please,” and not at all because he was gorgeous, pliant putty in your hands did you succumb to his wishes, both of them. sure, you’d fuck yourself and, sure, you’d fuck him, all at once. you felt your walls clench in anticipation, pussy dripping as you positioned yourself over him. the descent onto his cock was agonizingly slow but absolutely necessary, letting your walls adjust to the stretch of him while reveling in the searing pleasure. nicholas leaned into you and captured your lips with his, attempting to swallow your moans. instead, he whined into your mouth, keeping his lips against yours as your jaw went slack. you felt so fucking full, having nearly taken all of him, unexpectedly thick and veiny. you felt him grating inside of you, slowly lighting up every nerve ending, stretching you to hell and back. you steadied yourself, gripping the edge of your bed behind him, surpassing his broad, stone-carved shoulders right in front of you. goddamn ray gun. 

you moaned into his mouth when you’d reached the base of him, when your centers met at last, at least physically. emotionally, you and nicholas had been intertwined more intimately than this for what might have been years, each of you too stupid to realize the other had been right in front of you the entire time. you realized this, looking straight into his eyes, hips brushing, your bottom lip stuck between his teeth: this was right. nicholas felt it, too, fingers splayed on your back in a comforting grasp. he was keeping you closer, if it were even possible. he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, which you couldn’t help but sigh into, and mumbled, “beautiful,” he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist until you were practically flush against him, “so fucking beautiful, and mine.” 

and then, you moved, a faint roll of your hips that wrecked the both of you instantly. it was intoxicating, the throb of his thick cock inside of you. a moan ripped through you at the sensation, “fuck, nico.” 

“i know, baby,” he gulped, “you’re so tight.” 

baby. it felt natural, hearing him say it. his voice was deep and hypnotic, a slight rasp to it after the nights events. you wanted to take care of him, even now, with the tip of his cock nudging the depths of your body. so, you rode him slow, partially to keep his injuries from progressing but mostly because you wanted to feel him for as long as possible, wanted to savor the breathy groans and whines that spilled from his mouth every time you lifted almost completely off of him. you wanted to savor the feeling of his nails digging into your ass as he watched the point where your bodies were joined, where your pussy swallowed him, welcomed him. your pace was driving him wild, his hips lurching gently up into you, driving him deeper inside of you in a way you didn’t consider possible until it was happening. your entire body was on fire with him: the taste of him on your tongue, the caress of his palms down your spine, and the blistering pleasure coiling in your stomach from the steady tilt of your hips. 

“taking all of me so well, sweetheart,” nicholas groaned as you began to stutter, your movements growing messy as your climax approached. he slipped his hand between the two of you and pressed his thumb to your clit, sliding the pad of his finger along the swollen, sensitive bud in circles. the way you clenched around him only made him increase his speed, his pressure, drawing that coil inside of you tighter. “does that feel good? hm? tell me.”

“feels so good, nic,” you whined, “so, so good. i’m really close.” 

“come on my cock, baby, please,” nicholas pressed his lips to your neck, sucking and nibbling on your skin as if you needed any convincing, “wanna feel you squeeze me, make a mess on me.” 

“wanna feel you, too,” you mumbled, and nicholas pulled his face away, shocked, like he couldn’t believe what you were asking him. but he didnt argue, only held onto your hip and rolled his, faster, to meet yours as you bobbed on his cock, his thumb still orbiting your clit in a pleasure-driven frenzy. “feels so good, nicholas. please don’t stop.” 

and he didn’t until you were doubled over, face buried in his chest as your orgasm barreled into you. you chanted his name over and over like a prayer, pussy fluttering and squeezing him even more than before. you kept your hips rolling, riding out both your orgasm and his as nicholas threw his head back, mouth agape. you felt him twitch inside of you before you felt the warmth pool in your core, hot, thick ropes of his cum pumping into you. “holy fuck,” he groaned, “still cumming. fuck.” everything was hot. his skin was still damp, small beads of sweat collecting on his neck, and you felt your own body clinging to his as you stilled on his lap. 

most prominently, however, you felt something strange, something cold where nicholas’s hands had latched onto you and had remained latched onto you for a concerning amount of time. curiously, you pawed at his wrist, attempting to disconnect his skin from yours, but it just wouldn’t budge. 

and then you realized: he was stuck. 

“nicholas,” you raised, “did you fucking web on me?” 

his cheeks bloomed red, a shy smile taking over his lips as his chest heaved, recovering from his intense orgasm. of course, you would have some shit to say to him immediately. but he wasn’t sure what you were talking about until he tried to pry his fingers from your flesh. as if he had superglued his hand to you, your skin stayed attached to him as he gently lifted his fingers. in a clump at the base of your spine, and draping in loose strands over your ass, was silk- a cluster of webbing, sticky and fresh. 

nicholas blinked, just as shocked as you, “uh, yeah, i did.” 

“you didn’t think to mention that before?” 

“honestly, it’s… new.” 

he was still working to pull his hands from you, slowly lifting and flexing his fingers in small, delicate motions. he was obviously embarrassed in a way you couldn’t understand. you thought he had more control over the web thing by this point, but, honestly, as long as it wasn’t in your hair, mouth, or eyes, you didn’t care. it was kind of… hot? 

you traced his jaw with your finger, biting back a shit-eating grin. “would you say i… unclogged your web shooters?” 

nicholas laughed, finally pulling his hand free before pressing a light kiss to your lips, “i knew you liked that one.” 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

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“could you hand me that pen?” 

you didnt even realize you were zoning out; it was just so boring. as a teaching assistant, you’d already taken this introductory seminar and several like it. and the classrooms were all the same, set up auditorium-style with mounted desks on risers that went so far back that you couldn’t even tell if the students were awake or not. nine times out of ten, they were not. it felt like the backrooms, an endless stretch of repeating white brick and gray carpet. add on the bright white flash of the projector casting the bottom left corner of the screen directly into your eyes and there you had it: a recipe for zoning the fuck out for three hours. 

but when you looked up, professor byun had his hand outstretched to you, a patient smile etched onto his face. that’s really all it took to snap you back into yourself. the pen seemed to turn to liquid as you grabbed for it, fumbling over your own fingers. silence settled over the lecture hall like fog, the shrill scraping of the pen’s plastic casing on your wooden desk the only sound louder than your heartbeat climbing to your ears. you handed it to him, finally, mouthing sorry as he plucked it from your fingertips. it was quite literally your only job to hand him pens or paper or whatever he might need while he was teaching. that was the job description, but you’d had the longest week of your life, and professor byun’s 8 am literary studies seminar was the tired, dreary cherry on top. 

one thing you could always appreciate about your supervisor, or mentor as he so graciously asked you to call him, was his grace. he was incredibly young, only a few years older than you, so he still knew how draining it was to be in your position. you’d applied to graduate school with the hopes of being in professor byun’s exact same position one day, droning on and on about your favorite subject matter and forcing forty-ish people to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to you ramble for three hours twice a week. so, he was very open to taking you under his wing as his teaching assistant at the beginning of the semester. you didn’t account for how distracting it would be from your studies, though, to work alongside a hot literature nerd. 

byun euijoo was a sight for sore, tired eyes. he loomed over almost everyone, shoulders broad and accentuated most days by a padded blazer. he wore thin framed glasses on the slope of his nose, the tops of which were covered, usually, by a wisped veil of brown hair, ends curling and flipping up at the base of his neck. everything about him was good; his face was sweet and soft, especially when he would smile, accentuating the supple curve of his cheeks. not to mention the warmth of his eyes, round and inviting. yet, it was so difficult to maintain eye contact with him for too long, his gaze too expectant, too hopeful. it made you sick. even when he grabbed the pen from you under the judgemental stares of his students, his stare was forgiving. dont sweat it, he scrunched his eyes in a subtle smile, brows furrowed, understanding. 

the lecture wrapped up after what felt like days. the past two weeks had been dedicated to different literary critics, which was simply old news to you. there was no harm in a refresher course in post-structuralism, but, unfortunately, not even byun euijoo could have made that class interesting. you had already been grappling with your own instability. and apparently it was evident. 

“are you doing alright?” professor byun asked as the last of the students filed out of the lecture hall. their conversations buzzed until the chatter fizzled out into a dull silence. you had started shoving your own belongings into your bag, noticing the pen you handed him earlier roll across the table, gradually slowing to a halt as he added, “you seemed a bit out of it today.” 

even as he leaned, casually, against the desk, you felt like the room was closing in on you. he had traded his blazer for a light, knit cardigan that draped over his shoulders, held closed by two buttons in the center. he looked effortlessly casual, stark next to your half-assed attempts at professional attire. everyday was a struggle to look twenty something, having had too many students call you “ma’am” when you handed them their graded papers back. somehow only byun euijoo, highly regarded literature professor, could wear jeans and a cardigan and still look like the most respected person in the room. 

“oh, yeah. sorry,” you slipped your bag onto your shoulder, using the heaving motion to put some space between the two of you. it was rare that he lingered post-lecture, usually running off to another class or do whatever in his office from noon to dusk. you’d never seen office hours run an entire afternoon, but apparently that’s what happened when people cared about your opinion and actually wanted to meet with you; you just had to sit in your office for an entire day. no wonder he was sticking around today. “i’m just tired. i’m pretty sure my roommate is conducting unauthorized sleep studies on me for a project.”

like in a dream, he raised both eyebrows at your theory, lips pressing into a thin smile. you didn’t need to tell him all of that, but he seemed to appreciate the honesty. he nodded, “yeah, that,” he laughed, “that sounds less than ideal.”

“but it’s due soon,” you quickly added, “so i should be back in action later this week. up and at ‘em. ready to, you know, hand you the pen and stuff.” if there were ever a perfect time to stop talking, it would have been thirty-five seconds ago. it actually would have been several minutes ago, immediately following his simple and polite, “yes” or “no” question. there was no version of that conversation that ended with embarrassment. i’m just stressed, you should have said, thanks. because what graduate student wasn’t stressed? 

professor byun nodded, the motion tousling his hair over his forehead. “well, good,” he feigned a serious, stern expression, “i need my pen.” you could’t help but smile, just a tad, as he was so damn charismatic. he pushed himself off the table in a swift, smooth motion and held his hand up, hesitating for a moment like he was going to clap you on the shoulder. a reassuring gesture, surely, but instead of following through, he flipped his arm over, checking his watch. he pushed his glasses up on his nose, scrunching it awkwardly. “let me know if i can do anything for you, okay? i mean it.”

“sure,” you gave him a small smile as he slipped through the gap between you and the whiteboard behind you. his cologne wafted over you in a swift gust, sweet and warm. “thank you, professor byun.” 

he suddenly stopped in his path to the door, broad shoulders slumping. he reminded you, urged you, “i told you not to call me that. call me euijoo, please.” 

euijoo. the name was sweet, like him. or at least the version of him you made up; the one that sipped his coffee at the boiling point in a graphic t-shirt every morning; the one that preferred cats despite wanting a dog, a big one with scary, human-like eyes; the one that practiced eye contact in the mirror while he brushed his teeth because no one was naturally that attentive. sure, you could call him that. you could call him by his name, informally, no problem. you were essentially equals; he was only a few years older than you, but it always felt kind of weird to refer to him as professor, especially since he wasn’t even your professor. you always erred on the side of caution, though, careful not to offend or insult him. 

“oh, one more thing!” before you could confirm or deny his request, he spoke again, this time raking a hand down the side of his hair, smoothing it awkardly, “could you get those exams from last week graded?” 

“sure thing,” no, i have a life, “I’ve already started them,” i havent touched them, “I’ll drop them off later during your office hours, if that’s okay?” im going to disappear and then youll never know that half your students dont know the difference between feminist and queer theory. 

“yeah,” euijoo breathed, unsure. he adjusted his glasses again, glancing at his watch before nodding, “yeah, that should be fine. i’ll be in a meeting until 2, but you can stop by any time after that.” 

almost too eagerly, you agreed, “you got it!” 

and as euijoo left the lecture hall, you realized just how much shit you had to do. you wiped down the whiteboard, which euijoo never did before he ended class, simply content with leaving his little notes and concept headings scribbled for the next professor to deal with. but you had some respect for other people’s time. you logged him out of the room’s computer, turning off the projector in the process, and shut all the lights down before leaving the lecture hall yourself. the stack of fifty-something ungraded exams pulled you down, a weight on your shoulder and your mind.

“hi, professor byun. im having some problems understanding the material for the upcoming exam. what’s the main difference between derrida and barthes’ concepts of post structuralism?” 

your sandwich remained neglected in its plastic container next to you, accompanied only by the fountain drink you’d treated yourself to. condensation trickled down the cup in steady rivulets and pooled around the base in a ring. when you picked it up to take a sip, water dribbled across your laptop's keyboard. you wiped it clean with your shirt sleeve as you finished reading the email from one of the students in the literary seminar. you asked, “what do i even say to this? read the textbook, review the slides, make it up? you can basically just make it up.” 

“yeah, i dont know what the fuck any of that means,” yuma took an obnoxious bite of his lunch, doing absolutely nothing to console you in your stressed state, which, according to what you told euijoo, was completely his fault. he agreed to meet you for lunch, even offering to pay for your sandwich, under the condition that you would look over his lab report- the sleep study. “sounds like something i’d ask if i were really distracted during class and wanted some extra help.” 

yuma punctuated his statement with a concerning number of eyebrow raises, his tongue poking out from a mischievous grin. you rolled your eyes, “funny.” you should have known better than to ask yuma any kind of serious question. you’d been friends with him long enough to know that he would explode if he missed the opportunity to turn a pressing situation into a punchline for a dirty joke. and you had lived with him long enough to know that his flirty personality worked very well for him. but you couldn’t entertain his shenanigans. not today. “what’s worse is i dont even think he covered that this week. is that even supposed to be on the exam?” 

the campus dining hall was starting to get crowded, undergraduate students getting out of their noon classes and coming straight to fuel their brains. everything that wasnt fast food was grotesquely overpriced, so you were thankful for yuma’s wallet. you dreaded having to look over his paper, though, the title page mocking you atop the stack of exams you had yet to grade. it was as though it had eyes, staring right through you. the last thing you needed was to know what your body did while you were sleeping. that was, quite frankly, none of your business. in hindsight, it wasn’t yuma’s either. you hated the idea of him standing at the foot of your bed with a clipboard throughout the night, marking when you snored, taking your pulse with two clammy fingers, and shining his phone flashlight in your eyes. research is research. 

“do you think he knows he’s hot?” yuma asked, pushing the last of his lunch around in the bottom of his cardboard to-go box. you had tried for many years to learn the way yuma’s brain worked, but it became clear very quickly that there would never be any way to predict what he would say next. he was genuinely curious, and, honestly, so were you. you thought back to that morning, the frantic apologies he muttered every time the computer buffered and took longer than anticipated to load whatever he was projecting onto the board. he was a little bit late, and none of the students even looked up from their phones when he walked through the door- only you did that. 

“definitely not,” you closed your laptop, having sent a reply to the student’s email that just said, in typical, effortless byun euijoo fashion, please refer to the class notes. you shoved the device into your bag and scooted the stack of papers toward you. “hes got, like, clark kent vibes, and clark was famously not hot. it was his whole thing.” 

only clark kent, much like euijoo, was hot; he was just awkward, hunching over and diminishing himself to blend in. you wondered if euijoo was doing that, too, if euijoo was hiding something, like a superpower. or a secret. 

“you just have a thing for cardigans. a hot nerd in a cardigan is gonna do it for you every time,” yuma shrugged before reaching his hands across the table, gently taking your hand between his, “its sick. you need to talk to someone, seriously.” you pulled your hand away and swatted at him, narrowing your eyes. yuma put his hands up, palms out defensively, “i’m just saying, damn.” 

“i can’t even joke with you right now, yuma,” you pressed your fingers to your temples, blocking him out in every possible way as you squeezed your eyes closed, “i have so much to do.” 

yuma flipped through the corner of the stack of papers, as if he were counting all fifty of them. he raised his brows, whistling for effect, “yeah, dr. murata just makes me click the slides for him and grab his shit from the printer.” 

like you, yuma was a teaching assistant, only his supervising faculty member for the psychology program’s introductory seminar was more experienced, less hands on with his mentoring. in some ways, you were grateful that euijoo was giving you some genuine experience with planning and grading rather than just leading discussions. yuma wasn’t getting any of that. in fact, it seemed as though your dynamic with euijoo was similar to yuma’s with dr. murata, only inverted. you constructed the lesson plans, graded the exams, took attendance, handed out supplemental lecture materials, recorded discussion participation, and answered all of the emails about the class, all while professor byun stood in all his professional glory behind the computer and clicked away. slide 1, slide 2, could you hand me that pen?

but, it was fine; you signed up for this, for running errands and buying him water from the vending machine and grabbing his shit from the printer. it would make you a better educator in the future, surely. 

you had just flipped open yuma’s draft and began glancing over the introductory section when yuma reached back over the table and snatched it from the top of the stack. “don’t waste your time with this,” he sighed, giving you a pitiful look, “i wrote it, so its gotta be good. this,” yuma motioned to you, just in general, blinking rapidly, “this is bad.” 

“well, thanks,” you furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at him once, then twice, just to see if he would backtrack at all. as expected, he did not. instead, he shrugged his bag onto his shoulders, crumbling his napkin from lunch up in his fist and stuffing it into his pocket. yuma kissed his fingertips and cast the gesture toward you- a blessing. 

“see you at home,” he shouted over his shoulder as he left the dining hall, as he left you with euijoo’s papers and euijoo’s emails and your uneaten sandwich and your very, very wet cup of soda. 

it took you all of three hours to finish grading the stack of exams, complete with marginal feedback and brief comments on the essay questions at the end of each test. you were already exhausted, but the repetitive marking and circling and scribbling nice! next to every half-assed analysis sucked the rest of your energy out of you through a short straw. you had wanted to drop the stack off in euijoo’s office, just as he asked, and go straight home. maybe yuma would have started cooking something, and maybe he would have even saved you a plate knowing how miserable you were earlier. maybe. but none of that mattered when euijoo asked you, “did you bring the lesson plans for next unit?”

you stood, confused, in the middle of his office. you’d been in there a dozen times, always observant of which books were missing from his shelves, which books were strewn about on his desk and stuffed full of sticky notes and highlighter ink. you wondered how he could even see in the dim lighting, the only source the small table lamp on his desk. he was a collector of things, memories, like the stack of receipts he would use as bookmarks. 

you furrowed your eyebrows, reaching into your bag aimlessly, “sorry, i don’t remember you asking for those yet.” 

“hm, i must have forgot,” euijoo leaned back in his chair, one of those really nice, vintage leather ones. he crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his cardigan pulling taut against his forearms, riding up to reveal the delicate skin of his wrist. you thought about what yuma had said. you really did have a problem. he worked his lips into a fine line, thinking as he studied the obvious hesitance on your face. he sat up straight, clearing off a space on his desk in front of him, “you know what? don’t even worry about it.” 

“are you sure?” you blinked back your surprise. the smile he gave you was laced with something, you were sure of it. euijoo shrugged it off, as if doing his work that he was paid to do was somehow a favor to you. it felt like it, though. it also felt like a test, like a trial you were supposed to overcome.  

“positive,” he asserted, said as if there were no other obvious option, “you should go home and get some sleep, yeah?” 

yeah, you should have done that. you should have agreed with a nod, turned heel, and went directly home. but there was something about him that kept pulling you in against all rationale, against all reasoning. you noticed that his eyes dragged a little too far down your face when you spoke, tracing your lips. sometimes his gaze kept going, falling down your neck and further. you chocked it up as being a product of yuma’s delusions; you were imagining things because yuma kept giving you things to imagine. he’s testing your boundaries, yuma had mentioned, its his way of seeing how far you’ll let him go. and in some ways, that made sense. euijoo just kept adding extra duties to your workload. how far would he take it? how far would you let him? 

evidently, the limit did not exist. because you went straight from his office, where he looked you up and down and gave you the evening off, to the library, where you opened up a template and began constructing the lesson plans for next unit that he didnt ask you to do but pretty much wanted you to do. and you were nothing if not a people pleaser, an overachiever, and an ass kisser.  and you were kissing his ass big time. you had curled up in the corner of the library for an additional two hours, racing the sunlight so as to not be traipsing around on campus after dark but to no avail. the streetlamps on the sidewalk corners stirred to life as soon as you collected the lesson plans from the library printer, peering in at you through the windows. they were taunting you, mocking your attempt to earn brownie points with euijoo. all for what? a letter of recommendation? was he even qualified to write those? 

the walk back to his office was the same as before, just with slightly more dread involved and less daylight to reveal the jagged cracks and dips in the sidewalk. the staircase was just as humid. the hallway that housed the faculty offices was dim, too. the department professors and staff had already packed up and went home for the evening. like you should have. their doors were closed, little personalized signs and posters and corkboards adorning them. as you shuffled down the tight tunnel of a hall, you noticed that euijoo’s door was now closed, when earlier it had been propped wide open to reveal his somewhat messy but nonetheless impressively organized bookshelves and desk. the papers grew heavy in your hands, the ink no doubt smearing under the pads of your clammy fingers, as you stopped in front of his office door. 

byun euijoo, the little black plaque stared back at you, assistant professor. and beneath it, scrawled on a notecard and taped haphazardly to the dark oak: please knock!  

it was worth a try; if he wasn’t in, you’d simply bring everything with you to his class next week, or you’d try again tomorrow. embarrassment flooded your cheeks at the idea of knocking on a door to an empty room. you couldnt decide if you wanted him to be in there or not, if it would be less humiliating to present the lesson plans a few days later rather than a few hours. the latter screamed, hey, im desperate for your approval and i think youre weirdly hot! maybe not the second part, but certainly the first. perhaps he would find it endearing that you dedicated your entire thursday to doing his job for him. wait, was byun euijoo an asshole? 

surely, not, right? 

there was only one way to find out, to really know what boundaries he had silently set for your workload. there was only one way to know if he would appreciate your hard work or think you were a freak, or a loser, or just desperate. or some pathetic combination of all three, which was honestly the most likely option. regardless, you lifted your hand, tucking your thumb into your fist for maximum knocking efficiency. the plan was three solid raps, loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough to disturb anyone who might still be lingering, but your knuckles never made it to the door, frozen in mid air and still balled up. you heard something on the other side. and you tried not to make a habit of eavesdropping, but sometimes the situation called for it.

this was one of those situations, and “eavesdropping” is a generous term, for what you were doing was not eavesdropping but merely standing on the other side of a closed door, acutely aware of your surroundings and attentive to every movement and sound around you, including the noises seeping from beneath euijoo’s office door: a hiss through closed teeth, an uneven rustling of cloth, the fervent but faint creaking of a desk chair- it sounded like he had knocked over a cup of fresh, hot coffee, the liquid searing into his skin.  

“fuck,” he dragged, barely under his breath, voice low but not low enough. either the coffee was really hot, or you were hearing something you were never meant to, something private, something you had shamefully imagined a few times when your mind would wander while he lectured. you’d watched his slender fingers coil around the whiteboard markers, scrawling who-knows-what in unreadable handwriting, tendons flexing, wrist stiff. now, you could hear the slick, ceaseless movement of his hand, coiled around his cock instead. 

your face grew hot, blood pumping from your racing heart. you hated the way your mouth watered, how your neck angled your head just enough to press your ear closer to the door. you were close enough to hear the stifled moans that lodged behind his lips, escaping only in sighs and grunts, as if he were clearing his throat. it could have sounded ordinary if not for the occasional hum or hiss, the kind only someone drunk on their own pleasure would let slip. you imagined him, head thrown back and resting on the leather of his chair, his throat working as he gulped down his whines and curses like a steady trickle of water. you imagined him, chest rising and rarely falling in the dim light of the room as his hand dragged the length of his cock in desperate strokes, until he couldnt take it anymore. his breathing grew faster, and your clammy hands grew weaker, and you should have known this would happen to you. 

you should have known the paper on the bottom of the stack of lesson plans you were holding would slip right out of your hands and sweep, incriminatingly, through the inch of space between the vintage flooring and the door to his office, which was closed for a reason. there was no denying yourself, now. so, you knocked, rapidly and perhaps too eagerly to compensate for the cold sweep of dread that mixed with the hot pool of shame in your gut, like the start of a summer storm. shit, shit, shit, the voice in your head chanted while every part of your body burned, trembling as you heard him scramble on the other side of the door. 

there was a stillness followed by a choked, startled noise. he cleared his throat, for real this time, and shouted, “coming! er- i mean. one second!” there was a breathless quality to his voice that, unfortunately for you, made your thighs clench and your face heat up. you should have just turned and left, and you probably would have if not for the incriminating paper on the other side of the door. he would have known that you were there, and leaving would only be more suspicious. at least now you could defend yourself. no, professor byun. i wasn’t eavesdropping on you beating your shit crazy style. i would never, ever, ever even consider doing that. but as you heard the buckling of a belt, the shifting of his chair, and the deep, recovering sigh, it was nearly explicit what you had been doing. 

the door swung open, the gust rustling the paper on the floor behind him and blowing loose pieces of his hair, no longer carefully arranged to look naturally messy but genuinely messy. he had abandoned his cardigan, leaving only a faintly wrinkled white tee clinging to his shoulders. his face and neck were flushed dark pink, veins pulsing on the side of his throat. euijoo gulped when he saw you standing there, clutching the paper close to your chest. you knew you looked guilty; you could tell by the way his ears stayed red as he asked you, “what… what are you doing here?” 

“lesson plans,” you held them out, arms straight, “i went ahead and did them and, uh, thought i’d drop them off.” 

“oh,” euijoo wiped his hands on the front of his pants, quickly and inconspicuously, before taking the stack from you and holding them comfortably in one hand, “i thought i said i would do them, hm?” euijoo feathered through the papers, looking over them, inspecting them. 

no, you wanted to say, you said ‘dont worry about it,’ meaning i’d be doing them next week anyway. but instead, you feigned an innocent confusion, quirking an eyebrow all the way to the ceiling, “did you? i guess i misheard you. plus, i had the time! it was no trouble at all.” your smile was sweet, convincing. 

but euijoo’s wasn’t either of those things. in fact, it was barely a smile, bordering on a smirk, one that said he knew everything. he held your gaze for a beat too long, maybe to gauge you, to see if you were really standing there long enough to hear or know anything. but he knew you weren’t stupid. his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth before darting across his bottom lip, still bitten and glistening form having it tucked between his teeth while he-

“well, then, uh,” he sucked his teeth, still breathless, raising the stack of papers and meeting your eyes one final time, “thanks. i appreciate it.” 

“how horny do you have to be to jack off in an office?” 

yuma had completely ignored everything else you told him, including that the last three weeks had been absolute hell for you. after your encounter, euijoo piled the tasks on without remorse. suddenly, there were more papers, midterm tests turned into midterm papers, and more quizzes were being given in class, seemingly for the sole purpose that you would need to grade them. and euijoo grew cold, toward everyone but especially you. it was as though all of his charm had sloughed off overnight, like he had molted and evolved into some brooding asshole with a pen behind his ear. 

“that’s what stuck? not the unbearable stress i’m under? or my misery?” you prodded his side on the couch, the show he was watching dissolving into static background noise at the sudden dump of gossip you provided, “yuma, think about my misery.” 

“you’ve been in misery this whole time,” yuma rolled his eyes, muttering, “only difference is that it’s at least interesting now.” 

“interesting for you,” you covered your face with your hands, sighing deeply. “horrible for me. he won’t even look at me, and i didn’t even do anything.” 

the class was the definition of tense following the incident. your lesson plans were thorough, yes, but they were not nearly as packed with papers and assignments and groupwork as euijoo was enacting. you felt bad for the students, mostly, that your eager-to-please nature had tripled their final courseload. but then you felt bad for euijoo, and yuma scolded you for that. he said, “he’s a grown man. frankly, he needs to just get over it.” but you knew what it felt like to be embarrassed. granted, you dealt with it a little differently, with a conversation or just ignoring it completely. euijoo was confronting you with his embarrassment every single day, sliding stacks of ungraded papers across your table toward you at the end of class and leaving without a word. you’d been grading them at home and just bringing them to class to avoid another encounter in his office. even during office hours, you felt like it would only bring up ill feelings. or other feelings.

“here’s what i think,” yuma stood up from the couch beside you, ignoring your displeased grunt as you slumped over into the warmth of his empty cushion. he clapped his hands together in a righteous, all-knowing fashion, as if he had stepped into the shoes of a scholar. one who studies unfortunate tension between awkward individuals and inappropriate work relationships. he announced, “i think professor big-dick has the hots for his TA, and i mean you if thats not clear. and i think he has poor emotional processing skills and a very high sex drive. and no, that’s not a headcanon or personal fantasy- just the truth. and i think the combination of all of those things has left him very confused and, if i might assign vulnerability to a male figure of authority, scared.” 

you knew yuma had a wild imagination, but this was beyond your expectations for whatever he was about to tell you. the inside of your mouth was bone dry from how long you jaw had been flat on the floor. you couldn’t believe what he was implying. yet, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt like you knew there was some truth to it. “no,” you shook your head, rubbing your eyes, “don’t suggest it’s my fault somehow that he’s fucking my entire life over.” 

“not your fault, babe,” yuma flicked his hair from his face with his fingertips, “you’re hot and smart. and now he knows you’re a sick little voyeur-” 

“yuma!” you threw a pillow at him, and he didnt even budge when it smacked into his chest, still standing in an overconfident pose, “you would’ve done the same thing!” 

“yeah,” he shrugged, “only he wasn’t thinking about me, idiot. i’d just be a creep.” 

you couldnt help but feel as though you’d crossed a line somehow, albeit accidentally. but crossed nonetheless. it seemed as though you’d never be able to go back to the lighthearted, supportive, non-complicated relationship you’d had with euijoo only three weeks prior. he’d checked in on you then, at least, begged for informalities. now, he expected your complete surrender to his every wish without a second thought for your own studies beyond your duties as his assistant. you had papers to write rather than grade. you had your own exams to study for, but you were too focused on making study guides for the final exam in euijoo’s class to even worry about how much of your own degree was being swept under the rug. 

so, you kept what yuma said in the back of your mind: confused and scared.

the next time you saw him, it was a tuesday. there were only a few classes left until finals week. and until your mentorship with euijoo would expire, hopefully with a letter of recommendation to show for it. if you were lucky, you’d remain amicable and disregard all the unnecessary tension he’d created and you’d tried desperately to dissolve. it wasn’t explicitly sexual, but yuma was so sure that you began to suspect it, too. 

euijoo was still charming, you’d noticed, even when he was clearly stressed out. there was something extra alluring about the throbbing vein in his neck, the way his glasses slid down his nose as he buried his face in his computer at the front podium. this class period was a dedicated work day for the students to finalize their presentation scripts and slides, so you and euijoo were basically useless, lingering silently mere feet from each other for three hours. his shoulders hunched over as he typed away, the faint click of his keyboard breaking through the soft chatter of the class. it was all you could hear, the mechanical tapping only muted by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

and when the class was over, you weren’t as prompt leaving as you had been for the last month. usually, you had your laptop stuffed into your bag before the first student left the room, ready to bolt. but today, you stuck around a moment too long, and euijoo was already standing next to you when you closed your laptop. you could feel his eyes on the top of your head, tracing the side of your face. you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t stutter in your chest. instead of looking up at him, instead of meeting his eyes in this perfectly planned display of power, you stood up from your chair and met his gaze that way. he was taller than you, so you weren’t eye-level with him, but it felt like enough to tilt your chin up and roll your shoulders back. euijoo tilted his head at your boldness, his tongue prodding the inside of his cheek, like he was neutralizing a smirk. you narrowed your eyes into his, fighting the pull to get completely lost in them. his glasses made you think of an aquarium, his eyes swirling like tepid water. there was a part of you that wanted to tap on the glass, like a kid, if only to see if he would flinch like a fish or push back, like a wave. 

you got your answer. euijoo broke eye contact with you to reach into his bag and pull out a stack of papers. he gently placed them on the table between you and, with four fingers flat on the top, slid the stack as close to you as he could, closing the distance between you with one confident stride. you softly gasped, and you hoped he didnt hear. 

“thursday,” euijoo said as he leaned down, just enough to make sure you could hear him. his breath tickled the cusp of your ear and, then, he left, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. you stood there, frozen. there was an unfamiliar feeling in your chest, one that tasted like lust but hit like anger. 

your feet were moving before you could think about what to do next, dragging you out of the empty seminar room, down the hall, and into the faculty office corridor. you scanned the names on the doors like you didnt know exactly where you were going. and when you got there, he was peacefully sat at his desk, book spread open before him and a pen in hand. you marched right through his door, propped open with a rubber wedge, which you swiftly kicked out of the way to let the door close behind you. 

as you charged into the room, euijoo dog-eared his page, sighing like you had inconvenienced him, “i have a meeting in-”

“no, you fucking don’t,” you countered, punctuating your statement with the stack of papers, slamming the stack on the corner of his desk unoccupied by whatever hipster shit he decided to display that week, “and i’d know because i’d have to put it in your google calendar.” 

“you’re upset,” euijoo raised his eyebrows as he observed your behavior, like a scientist and his test subject. it felt like he was studying you, even now, and, honestly, you were kind of sick of being the center of so many experiments without your permission. 

“yeah,” you smiled, half in disbelief and half just to keep yourself together, “yeah, i’m upset.”

“would you like a break this week?” he asked, like it was the most obvious question in the world. he closed his book, tucking it away somewhere off to the side of his desk. “it’s almost finals, so i understand if you don’t feel like working.” 

“that-” you stopped, taking a deep breath. if byun euijoo had one thing, it was the nerve. it was the confidence to say whatever he wanted without repercussion. you wondered, between flashes of red, how long he had been like this and you had been too naive, too distracted by his cute-ass cardigans and fluffy hair to notice just how much of a dickhead he was. you thought back to The Day, before you stumbled into the most awkward situation of your life, even before you got lunch with yuma. you thought back to the class, when he had asked you if you were alright. he couldn’t even reach one foot in front of him to grab a pen from the table, only asking you if you were alright because you failed to obey him immediately. was that all you were good for? “that is so gracious of you, euijoo, really. because i’ve been working so, so much for the last month. i’d even go so far to say ive been doing nothing but working. wouldnt you?” 

“you’ve been very helpful, if that’s what you mean,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “but i can see how i might have… overloaded you.” 

“yeah, if by ‘overloaded’ you mean i’ve been doing your fucking job for you,” your voice was coming out harsher by the second, but there was no guarantee you’d be able to get this off your chest again with the way he’d been avoiding you.

“i wouldn’t say that.”

“i would,” you bit back, “im grading all the papers, making the lesson plans, answering all your fucking emails.” you reached a shaking hand out to count your tasks on bent fingers. “i’m putting tests together, scheduling your meetings, compiling study guides. i’m pulling all nighters so often, i don’t even know what day it is until i look at your emails and see students asking about ‘class tomorrow.’ none of this is going to fucking matter if i fail out of all my classes because you cant spare an hour to grade your own shitty assignments. i’m doing everything, and what are you doing besides jacking off in your office like a pervert?” 

the silence was thick. you swore you could taste it settling flat on your tongue, tangy with remorse but just barely. it was sweet more than anything and heavy like honey. your chest felt lighter despite how hard it was to breathe, your lungs manually inflating, compressing, inflating- all as shallow as you felt throwing that at him. you weren’t normally this way, and he could see that. you saw him realize that, his eyes darkening as he visibly gulped back anything he thought about saying in response. instead, euijoo, prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue, eyes half-lidded and jaw clenched. he kept his posture disengaged, his arms crossed firmly over his chest, although his fist clenched tighter under his bicep. he directed, finally doing one part of his job, “i think you should watch how you talk to me.” 

“i think you should watch how you look at me.” 

euijoo breathed a laugh, dumbfounded. he shook his head, like you had just told him something he knew was so far-fetched it could not possibly be true. like you’d said kermit was the hottest muppet; that’s how he laughed, like he knew it was really gonzo. he moved to stand up, extending his hand to the door behind you, “you should leave. i’m incredibly busy with things you dont know about, if you can believe it.” 

“i’m sure you are now, considering i just returned every last one of your ungraded assignments,” you were the one to cross your arms now, standing firm in your place. you nodded vaguely toward the tower of stapled papers on the corner of the desk, “most of these aren’t even for the intro seminar. i can check credit or no credit for a multiple choice quiz, but i dont know how to grade your shakespearean analyses or your goddamn poetry explications. i mean, i could figure it out, but-” 

“want me to show you?” 

you nearly laughed, thinking euijoo was mocking your ignorance, until you met his eyes, dark and narrowed. he held your gaze as he sat back in his chair, aligning his posture with the leather backing and firmly planting his feet, an inverse of the relaxed stature he sported when you came crashing in. he was completely serious about showing you how to do everything you mentioned, this you knew, but you weren’t stupid. there was an undertone, a silky venom under that first word- want. did you want him to show you? did you want him? the line had already been crossed. the two of you knew this and had known it for weeks, and, instead of calling it quits, you dragged it out. and now you had to decide; did you want euijoo to show you? 

you could basically feel yuma’s spirit in the room with you, grabby hands pushing you forward and snickering like a teenage girl, as you took two cautious steps around the corner of the desk. you had been closer to him before, like half an hour ago when he handed you the mismatched stack of papers and ghosted his breath on the shell of your ear, when he let his chest graze your shoulder. but it felt murky, now, as you stood next to him, arms still crossed as he fished a few poetry papers from the stack. he thumbed through them, looking for the perfect example, and, when he found it, he glanced briefly at you over his shoulder. 

“alright, so,” euijoo’s hands firmly pinched the edges of the paper, “you know poetry is all about choices. diction, imagery, meter, line breaks- the works; an explication magnifies those choices in the context of the poem, yeah? it makes the implicit explicit.” 

you nodded, but you were not listening. you were entirely focused on the flex of his fingers as he spoke, the curve of his wrist and the soft skin that disappeared under the sleeve of his blazer. you watched the tip of his nose move with his lips, the silver frame of his glasses glinting against the dim light of the lamp in the corner. implicit, explicit- it felt more pertinent to your situation than you’d cared to admit. 

“are you listening?” euijoo asked, not bothering to turn to look at you this time, “i asked if you’ve read this poem before.”

“oh, uh,” you cleared your throat, “no, sorry. i dont read a lot of poetry.” 

“that’s too bad,” euijoo sighed, swiveling around to angle his body toward you. it was all too much, really, the confrontation followed by the accusations and now the lesson? on a poem you’d never read for a class you didn’t plan on taking to grade a paper that wasn’t your responsibility. and he was sitting there, thighs spread enough to make him look even broader than he was, thighs carved under brown slacks. “would you like to read it?” 

“hm?” you eyed him, cautiously, eyebrows raised as if you still didnt hear him. you mouthed, oh, and reached out your hand, waiting for him to give you the poem. how else would you read it? but instead, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, gently, moving in short, calculated motions. euijoo tugged your wrist toward him, a subtle gesture as though he were waiting for you to move on your own accord. this was the line, you realized, everything else was just poor timing and yuma’s imagination feeding your delusions. regardless of the ethics, the mental gymnastics you would need to do later to justify it all, you let your body succumb to his gravity. you followed the lead of his hand as he guided you to him, onto his lap, onto one thigh. you couldnt bite back your gasp as you settled onto his leg. yours were awkwardly situated off to the side, but you couldn’t care, not with the full heat of euijoos body pressed flat behind you. you could feel the muscles of his thigh, flexing under the swell of your ass. his hand had abandoned your wrist and settled instead on the sensitive skin on the back of your arms, his fingertips grazed the curve of your waist with every intoxicating drag of his knuckles to your elbows. it was exactly like striking steel on stone only slowly, tenderly as if it were a matter of intent. the fire would start, eventually.

he leaned back in his seat, relaxing in a way that made your rigid stance all the more noticeable, as conspicuous as the goosebumps prickling every visible part of your body. euijoo breathed deep. “go on,” he said, “read it aloud if you want.” 

you reached forward with obvious, shaking hands and scooted the paper toward you, stapled in the corner and heavy on only that side. you didn’t read aloud, afraid of what your voice would do if you even tried to speak in your current situation, but you felt euijoo’s eyes on you as you read. the writing was gorgeous, a tightly quilted cacophony of jarring but vivid images. you didn’t fully understand it, but that was the point. it drew your face into a point, one euijoo mirrored as he followed your eyes on the page, reading it alongside you. “beautiful,” he murmured, slipping his foot between yours and maneuvering your legs open, until you were straddling his thigh. and as you steadied your palms on the edge of his desk, adjusting to your new, sinful position, euijoo said, “now, in an explication, it’s all about making connections. consider the poem’s speaker, its meaning,” he slipped his fingertips under the hem of your shirt, grazing your waist with cold, nimble fingers, calloused from turning the page, from holding the pen, from gripping the leash of the dog you made up in your head. this was real, though, and you leaned back into his touch more than you should have, desperate for some kind of contact beyond his knuckles on your arm and, now, the press of his leg into your pulsing core. he walked his hands up your sides, stopping right under your ribs. his thumbs seared their own paths along your spine, pressing deliciously into your delicate skin. “remember what i said earlier about choices? an explication connects a poem’s meaning to things like meter and enjambment, or it considers the perspective of the poem’s speaker and the poet’s diction, imagery, rhythm.” 

euijoo’s hands slid to your hips, squeezing tentatively before pushing you down on the peak of his thigh. the sudden pressure, the final flick of steel on flint, pulled a moan from your throat that should have made you feel embarrassed but didn’t, not with euijoo guiding your hips back and forth over him, flexing his thigh deliciously under your clothed, aching core. he dragged you in short, slow motions, letting you work with him, letting you roll your hips over the taut muscles. you could hear his breathing grow uneven with every push and pull, every surrender to the urges he’d fought back the entire semester with you. you could feel him holding back, dipping his fingertips just beneath the waist of your pants and pressing into your flesh. you angled your hips back, just barely, and euijoo jolted under you as your ass brushed the evident, growing bulge in his slacks, his sudden movement eliciting another sound from you. and as the two of you groaned, together, you realized how easily someone could walk by the closed door, how someone could knock, or rather how they could not. 

and you realized how concerning it was that you didn’t really care. not at that moment, as euijoo sat up straight behind you, pulling your back flat against his heaving chest. you felt his heartbeat between your shoulderblades. he ground you down onto his leg once again, forcing sparks against your throbbing clit, even through the layers of clothing. you felt euijoo move your hair away from your neck and press a soft kiss to the back of your neck. wet, open-mouthed, and his tongue lingered at the tail-end, dragging a warm stripe up to your ear. “do you understand, now?” his lips grazed the shell of your ear. 

you hummed, almost drunk on him. but not drunk enough. “do you?” you smirked, rolling your hips against him once again, reveling in the friction as long as he would allow it, “i could have googled that.” 

one hand abandoned your waist and came up to your chin, holding your jaw. euijoo turned your face, gently, to look at him. his eyes glinted, dark, behind his glasses. his hand was so big, obvious against the curve of your cheek. he scanned your eyes for any sign of remorse, any inkling of regret, or fear, and found nothing but fire. pure heat. he licked his lips, “then why didnt you, hm? had to come in here and make a scene instead.” you placed your hand on his, just long enough to lift and slip his thumb between your lips, humming around his digit as he pushed it further inside. his own mouth fell open as you smoothed your tongue over the pad of his finger, urging him deeper until your lips were sealed up to his knuckle. euijoo groaned softly, pressing down on your tongue as you continued to rock your hips against him. “fuck,” he dragged, “you wanted this, too, hm? didnt you, doll?” euijoo watched as you hollowed your cheeks, his own tongue poking from the side of his mouth. “so desperate, grinding on me. go on and get yourself off on my thigh, pretty girl. you can do it.” he snaked his free hand from your hip around to your stomach, fingers still looped under your pants, teasing, “been feeling your needy cunt on me this whole time. you can make yourself come, can’t you, darling?” 

you whimpered around his thumb, rutting against his leg. you steadied yourself with one hand on the desk and wrapped the other around his wrist, keeping his fingers close to your mouth. your body was so, so close, your core burning white hot. but it wasnt enough. too many layers, too little friction without him pushing you down or flexing his thigh. you wanted more; you needed more.you needed him- his fingers, his mouth, his cock. you shook your head. 

“no?” euijoo furrowed his brows, tilting his head in a pout, “first, you can’t do something as simple as read a poem, grade a paper. and now you cant make yourself come? do you need my help with that, too, baby? want me to show you how?” 

you nodded, eagerly and without hesitation, but euijoo slid his thumb from your lips, smearing your spit over them like gloss, dragging it up your burning cheek. he cradled your head in his hand, tilting your head to look into his eyes, dark and round, amplified behind glass. he whispered, “i need you to say it for me, beautiful.”

“yes, euijoo,” your voice was low, quiet enough for him to hear and no one else, since you were painfully aware of how easily sound traveled through closed doors, “i want you.” 

it was true. you did have a thing for hot nerds in cardigans. and it was sick how you were willing to do anything he asked you. more than willing. in any other universe, the two of you would have crossed paths at the supermarket, where you’d have given him a terrible pasta recipe you’d made up on the spot to impress him, or at a bar, where maybe he’d have bought you a drink and his phone number. instead, your current paths were horribly complicated but crossing nonetheless, intertwining like two steel, barbed wires. like a chainlink fence. 

euijoo leaned in first, connecting your lips softer than you’d anticipated, like he was savoring you. in all honesty, you didn’t expect him to kiss you at all, but his lips were plush, warm, and they nestled between yours almost perfectly. he tasted as sweet as he smelled, moved as gentle as he looked. you melted into him, sighing against his lips, moving so meticulously against your own. he moved his hands to your ass, pulling you closer until you were straddling him. this taste of control made your head spin. you deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue past his lips. he hummed into the kiss, squeezing the flesh of your ass and pulling you down against him, just enough to grind up into you. you were both whining, groaning messes against one another, the kiss growing desperate with every grind of your hips, teeth grazing and noses clashing. 

“euijoo,” you mumbled, “touch me.” 

“hmm,” he disconnected your lips, pulling back only far enough to scan your face, “might need to google it first.” 

oh, and he was cheeky, too. great. you were taken aback by the unexpected humor but satisfied with the way he matched your wit. you let a smile bleed through the cool exterior you were trying desperately to maintain, “go ahead. i bet you can figure it out, though,” you smirked, testing the waters, “you touch yourself just fine.” 

euijoo let his head hang forward, breathing a laugh. “fair,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “you’re good.” 

“mhm,” you shifted in his lap, “i’m also- what all did you say? desperate, needy?” you leaned back down into him, pulling the collar of his coat away from his neck. you dusted a featherlight kiss right on his pulse, feeling it spike beneath your lips. he sucked in a quick breath, a gasp, and slid his hands over your thighs, squeezing the bulk of them before inching his fingers closer to the button of your pants. 

“gotta get these off, yeah?” euijoo breathed as you continued to work kisses up his neck, his jaw, and back to his mouth. before you could connect your lips to his, as you hovered impatiently over him, he pulled his face away, just an inch or two. he watched you fall forward, chasing him. a smirk tugged at his mouth as he whispered, “i want you on my desk.”  

you’d barely stepped out of your pants when euijoo hoisted you up, settling you on the edge of the wooden table but only after swiping his books and pens and trinkets out of the way. the pens rolled, a metallic rumbling punctuated by several clinking thuds as they teetered off the edge, and the books remained in tall stacks. the corners prodded your side, but it was a shadow of a sensation the moment euijoo sank to his knees and latched his mouth onto your inner thigh, fingers splayed on the plush flesh, pushing them wider.  

the idea used to make your thighs clench, the fleeting and hazy daydream of euijoo between your legs. it had felt intrusive before, like you’d needed something to get through the endless hours of his boring lectures and he was the closest object for your strange affection. and now that it was real, now that you could feel his breath fanning over the damp patch in your underwear, it was still hazy, like you had overindulged, like you had been greedy and you still wanted more. 

euijoo looped his fingers around the waist of your underwear, watching as the soaked fabric lifted away from your pussy, only to be quickly replaced with the flat of his tongue. he groaned, lapping up the arousal you’d worked so hard for, remnants of a distant and futile orgasm. his sharp tongue slipped through your folds, prodding at your clit with every slow, upward drag. the pace pulled a sigh from your chest, but every torturous flick of his tongue manifested in a stifled mewl. he was calculated, memorizing your reactions to pressures and patterns, but each movement was so agonizingly slow. you could hardly stand it. you rolled your hips to meet his rhythm, to maybe gain a fraction of speed, but it only made him lag behind his already languid pace. 

“please,” you gripped at the edge of the desk to hold yourself back from grabbing his hair and riding his face the way you’d imagined a hundred times, “more, euijoo.” 

part of you craved the slow, deliberate pleasure, wanted to savor the dreamy caress of his fingers dragging lightly down the outside of your thighs; another part of you recognized the risk of it all, the thin walls and thinner doors, the effort to swallow the sounds he was pulling from you almost distracting from the feeling itself. 

“more?” euijoo grazed your clit with his teeth, smirking against you as your hips jerked involuntarily. he circled your dripping entrance with his fingertip, relishing in the way your body curled toward him as he pushed it inside, slow and even, long and slender. the stretch was subtle at first, and inward, his fingertip grazing the depths of you. you gasped, softly, as he pumped once, twice, and then you gasped, a little less softly, as he reattached his lips to your clit, working every part of your cunt with a fixed precision. euijoo peered up at you, his glasses crooked on his nose as his tongue flicked swift swipes over your aching bud, pleasure burning low in your core. 

he added another finger, slipping it in smoothly with the first and curling them at a devastating angle. your moans were stifled, barely more than breath, but they were there, and so were euijoo’s. he hummed against your cunt, lips engulfing your clit to send the vibrations straight through you. he pressed your hips down with his other palm, keeping you still for him as your release crept closer and closer, winding tightly in your core and threatening to snap at any moment. you attempted to roll your hips to amplify the movements of his fingers, chasing your high, but he didn’t stop you this time. instead, he loosened his grip, digging his fingers into your hip but not preventing you from moving, and pressed his tongue flat against you. “take it, baby,” he mumbled, “take what you need.” 

and you did, threading your hand in his hair and grinding helplessly on his face as euijoo pumped his fingers relentlessly into you, plucking the taut string until it snapped. your orgasm washed over you, silently and all at once, your pussy fluttering around his fingers. he stilled his tongue against you, feeling the pulse of your heat and catching your release as it leaked around his digits. “that’s it. come all over my fingers, pretty girl.” he slid his fingers out of you before watching them disappear in your sensitive cunt one final time. he brought them to his lips, slurping your juices from his skin, his own lips glistening with a combination of your wetness and his own drool. he was intoxicating- a vision. he squeezed your thigh one final time, whispering, “you’re even sweeter than i imagined.”  

imagined. the word made you come back down, your core still pulsing but craving more. you reached out for him, pulling him up to meet your lips in a frenzied, hungry kiss. you let your tongue slip into him immediately, savoring your own flavor on his tongue. he groaned into you, pressing his hips flush to yours; his dick was straining against the front of his pants, twitching against your bare core as your tongues melted against each other. you pulled away first, just enough to ask, “and what else did you imagine?” 

euijoo breathed a laugh, casting his eyes away from you like he was embarrassed, scanning the shelves on the wall behind you. his tongue darted out before he slipped his bottom lip between his teeth. he slipped his hands beneath your shirt again, dragging his fingertips up your sides, “i imagined your mouth on my cock,” he said as his gaze fell on your lips, like he were imagining it then, too. he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your jaw, working his way down your neck, “i imagined your throat, bruised and sore after i’ve fucked it raw.” 

you couldnt help the way you moaned as euijoo nipped at your skin, soothing the tender area with his tongue. every part of your body was on fire. you slid your hands to the front of his pants, innocently looping your fingers through his belt loops. “and that day, when you thought you were alone,” you pulled the tent of his cock closer, brushing it against your sensitive core, and you felt him moan against your neck, “what did you imagine, then?” 

“bending you over my desk,” euijoo hissed into your ear, answering like it was obvious, before smoothing his tongue over the shell of it, “and stuffing you full of my cum.” he pushed his hips closer, grinding up into you in a slow and controlled movement, and growled, lowly, “over and over and over.” 

before you could even think, you were shoving his blazer off his shoulders and running your palms over the broad slopes of hidden muscle. beneath, he was clad only in a button up with the sleeves rolled a precise three times to his forearms. he watched you unbutton the top two plastic discs sewn to his shirt and stop, satisfied with the slight reveal of flushed skin. the only thing you had it worse for than a hot nerd in a cardigan was a hot nerd in a slutty little button up. “you have a vivid imagination, euijoo,” you whispered, bringing your hands back down to his belt and toying with the worn metal fixtures, “lots of time to daydream when you have someone else doing your work for you, hm?” 

euijoo rolled his eyes, mirroring your smirk as you worked at his belt. he pushed your hands out of the way and swiftly unbuckled the leather strap, unbuttoning his slacks but hesitating to push them down. instead, he scanned your face again, this time really looking at you. he studied the creases of your eyes, the arch of your brow, the plush curve of your lips, red and swollen from being lodged between your teeth to smother your moans. you tilted your head, curious, having never been able to read him in any situation but especially this one. you felt exposed under his gaze, and not only because you were, still nude from the waist down, but because he was too silent. it was like you tripped a wire. he chewed the inside of his cheek, his hand falling to caress the outside of your bare thigh once again. the goosebumps rose as he whispered, “can i admit something?”

“no,” you whispered back, dragging your fingers down his clothed chest, gently passing over the toned slopes of his stomach until you reached the zipper of his slacks. you caught the metal tab between your fingers and pulled it, slowly, over the grinding metal teeth until there was enough space to slip your hand in and press your palm against him, “tell me after you’ve fucked me.” 

euijoo choked back a groan, lowering his head to your shoulder as his hips bucked into your hand. his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, sharp pecks along your collarbones growing more intense with every squeeze of your hand, every jolt of pressure. “fuck,” euijoo cursed against your neck, his breathing erratic, like he could have came from this alone, “deal.” he pushed his slacks down enough for his cock to spring free, the tip red and impatient, flushed and frustrated just like his face. and just as pretty. as was the case with any daydream, any fantasy, you’d imagined he would be huge, inhumanly girthy, but the reality was not disappointing; he was average in bulk but long and slightly curved. your mouth watered as your fingers wrapped around him instinctively. your mouth felt suddenly hollow, throat aching to be, what was it, bruised and sore? but, frankly, so was your pussy, dripping with greed all over his desk in a way that should have embarrassed you but only turned you on more. he squeezed his eyes shut as you stroked him, agonizingly slow, feeling the pulsing vein that ran along the underside. he held your hand still as a silent plea before pulling you off him completely, holding both of your hands in his as he urged you off the desk. 

a gentleman, at last. 

but as soon as you were standing on two feet, he spun you around with a steady hand on your hip and bent you, directly at the waist, over his desk. you gasped at the contrast, soft palms with calloused fingers pushing the small of your back until your stomach was level with the wooden surface. it was all very confusing, the way you had to bite back a moan at the force and, then, a smile as he reached around you, opening a book from the top of its stack and placing it below your face. a cushion of sorts, which you happily nestled your cheek against, the pages loved and soft. 

and then you felt it- the heavy tip of his cock as euijoo pushed himself over your entrance and through your folds in slow, maddening strokes, coating himself in you and driving you up the wall in one go. he bumped your clit with every drag, hands kneading the plush of your ass as you arched into him. “still so fucking wet,” he mumbled, hissing as he made another long drag through your leaking cunt, “i’m gonna fuck you now, baby. let me know if its too much and i’ll stop, yeah? say it for me.” 

“y-yes,” you breathed, the air rustling the raw edge of the page beneath your cheek. euijoo squeezed your hip, thumb pressing into your flesh as he breached your entrance at an agonizing pace, stretching and searing. your jaw went slack, hanging open with a silent cry as he slid, inch by inch, deeper inside of you, until you were sure there was no more left. and then he kept going. you reached for anything to hold onto as he split you directly in two, “fuck, yes. fuck- euijoo-” 

“that’s it, baby,” he stroked the curve of your back as he bottomed out inside of you, “not so bad, was it? pretty pussy sucked me right in.” and you felt every inch of him, kissing your walls and sparking your nerves with that familiar stone-fueled fire. euijoo ground his hips against your ass, as if he could possibly go any deeper, and whined, soft and high, yet another contrast to the firm press of his hand on your hip. experimentally, you copied his movement, rolling your hips slightly, pulling forward and pushing back onto him in one short, slow stroke. 

“so fucking impatient,” euijoo mumbled, sliding out of you almost entirely, leaving you empty for only a second before pushing back in, watching himself disappear between your folds, “so fucking eager.” you sank your teeth into your fist to muffle your moans, the scrape of his cock along your insides begging you to break, coaxing the most pathetic sounds out of you. and they only got worse as he snapped his hips faster, driving his cock into you in short, rapid thrusts. 

“squeezing the hell out of me, doll,” he grunted, “so fucking tight, so perfect.” you clenched around him at the praise, wishing the circumstances were different and that you could hear him, really hear him. the soft grunts and gentle whines were only a fraction of what he could really give you. he was spearing into you, fingers walking up your spine and smoothing over your skin with featherlight touches. his pace was becoming relentless, as fast as he could go without the obscene sound of skin-on-skin permeating the room, but it was the firm pressure of his fingertips circling your clit that made tears prick your eyes. “feel good, baby?” he mocked you with a honey-sweet voice, “crying all over the page, smearing my ink?” 

you felt the wetness roll out of the corners of your eyes and trickle into a puddle under your cheek. he didn’t even mention the drool that had accumulated from the side of your lips, fucked dumb on his desk, lurching toward his hips with every thrust to get yourself closer. “so fucking good,” you whispered, clawing at the edges of the desk to give yourself leverage, “please don’t stop, euijoo. gonna come for you.” 

“come all over my cock, pretty girl,” he mumbled, pressing on your back and rubbing intense circles around your throbbing clit. his thrusts were growing sloppy, and you knew he was close, too, ready for your orgasm to milk him dry. you arched your back just right, feeling his tip swipe that perfect spot in your core over and over, like a cellist plucking the lowest note, the thickest string. you felt your second orgasm rain over you, the wire finally snapping and sending a wave tremors through your body, your legs trembling below you, jaw slack with a silent cry lodged in your throat. euijoo buried himself to the hilt inside of you, letting your fluttering pussy work his own release out of him, the warmth spreading low into your stomach. he pumped himself into you once, then twice, forcing his cum deeper into you, groaning quietly and kneading the curve of your ass. he breathed, “holy shit,” and unsheathed his softening dick from your aching cunt, leaving you empty and cold as his seed leaked down your thighs. 

all you could do was lay there, just for a few minutes, catching your breath as he grabbed tissues from his desk drawer and tenderly scooped the trails of cum from your skin. he tossed the tissues into the trash and rested his hand, delicately, on the back of your head, petting your hair. you hummed, pleased with the contact, a sincere gesture. euijoo cleared his throat, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears, “i’m going to tell you this now because i feel like you’re too tired to be pissed at me.” 

you felt your breath catch in your throat as he admitted, “half of those assignments i gave you weren’t even real; the papers just smelled like you when you brought them back to me.” 

from the corner of your eye, you saw the stack of papers that brought you in here in the first place, stapled neatly on every corner and wrinkled on the edges from how tightly you clutched them to your chest as you stormed into his office. you thought about the hours wasted grading, the excess of tasks, the nights slipping away while you were stressed out of your mind. you sighed, still spent, “fuck you, euijoo.” 

“promise?”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

@wenomakiluvr @guliexe @cheolscherries1812 @jungwonsgff @heesoulnotes @kjjupilled @xionvlog @ikigaijo @0wisewisdoom @minhosimthings

You and Heeseung had been rivals since the moment you stepped into the academy. Sharp-tongued, competitive, and unwilling to yield even an inch to each other. That rivalry had only grown worse during this group project. For days now, the two of you had been clashing nonstop—especially tonight.

The living room was dimly lit by a single lamp. The rest of the group had already given up and passed out, one sprawled across the couch, another curled up on the floor with a blanket. It was well past midnight, and the argument between you and Heeseung had dragged on far too long.

You finally threw your hands up. “You know what? Forget it. I’m tired. I’m not wasting any more energy on this.”

You rolled your eyes, not even waiting for his reply. The only space left was a narrow strip on the edge of the floor. Great. Just great. You muttered under your breath, “Dang it…” and carefully stepped over the sleeping bodies, too exhausted to grab your blanket from your backpack. You collapsed onto the cold floor, lying on your side with your back facing the room.

A few minutes later, you heard footsteps. Heeseung stood there, scanning the room with a heavy sigh. Every decent spot was taken. The chairs were too uncomfortable for his back, and the only free space left… was right beside you.

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly annoyed. For a second he hesitated, jaw tight. But exhaustion won. Without a word, he stepped over the others and lay down behind you, facing your back. The floor was barely wide enough for both of you. You could feel the faint warmth of his body just inches away, but you were too tired to turn around or care.

Until you shifted.

Your eyes fluttered open as your shoulder brushed against something solid. You turned your head slightly… and froze.

Heeseung was right there. Eyes closed, brows slightly furrowed even in sleep, his face mere inches from yours.

“What the fuck?!” you hissed under your breath, careful not to wake the others.

Heeseung’s eyes snapped open. For a split second, surprise flashed across his face, quickly replaced by that familiar look of irritation. He didn’t move away.

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered sharply, voice low and rough from tiredness. “You think I wanted this? There’s nowhere else, genius.”

You glared at him, heart beating faster than it should. “Then go sleep somewhere else. I’m not sharing space with you.”

“Yeah? And where exactly?” Heeseung shot back, voice barely above a whisper. His breath brushed against your cheek. “The couch is taken. The floor’s full. Unless you want me to sleep on top of you, this is it.”

Your face burned. You hated how close he was—close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the tiredness in his eyes. Close enough that every small movement made your shoulders touch.

“Move one inch closer and I swear I’ll push you into the wall,” you muttered, turning your back to him again.

Heeseung let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. “Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere but here too.”

But neither of you moved.

the silence stretched between you, the only sounds were the soft breathing of your sleeping groupmates and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. You could feel the heat radiating from his body against your back, and no matter how much you told yourself it was just the rivalry making your pulse race… you knew the night had just gotten a lot more complicated.

A few minutes passed in heavy silence. You turned your face toward the wall, determined to ignore the boy behind you and force yourself to sleep.

But the floor was narrow and uncomfortable. One of your sleeping classmates behind Heeseung suddenly rolled over in his sleep and pushed against his back. The sudden force made Heeseung slide forward, pressing his chest flush against your back.

“Shit…” he mumbled, voice low and rough.

He quickly planted his hands on the floor, trying to keep some distance, but there was nowhere to go. The push had left almost no space between your bodies. You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Your heart slammed in your chest. You turned your head slightly, only to find his face right there—barely a breath away. His dark eyes were open, staring directly at you. Your noses were nearly touching.

“What the hell are you doing?” you whispered sharply, cheeks burning.

“I’m not doing anything,” Heeseung hissed back, clearly frustrated. “That idiot behind me pushed me. You think I want to be this close to you?”

His voice was quieter than usual, strained. One of his hands was still braced on the floor beside your waist, caging you in without meaning to. Every small movement made your bodies press together even more. You could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against your back.

You glared at him, but the anger felt different now—mixed with something nervous and warm that you refused to name.

“Well, move back,” you muttered.

“Where?” Heeseung shot back, eyebrows furrowed. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second before snapping back up. “There’s literally no space. Unless you want me to climb over you.”

You swallowed hard. The tension between you was thicker than ever. The rivalry, the annoyance, the exhaustion… and now this forced, unbearable closeness.

Heeseung let out a slow, shaky breath. “Just… go back to sleep. Pretend I’m not here.”

But neither of you moved. And neither of you closed your eyes.

You tried to ignore it—that strange, fluttering warmth twisting low in your stomach. It wasn’t anger. You knew anger too well when it came to Heeseung. This was something else. Something softer, heavier, You brushed it off, blaming it on exhaustion, on the way his body heat was seeping through your shirt like it had no right to.

But your body wasn’t listening.

Every time you breathed, your back pressed a little more firmly against his chest. His heartbeat was steady but strong, and you could feel it syncing with yours in the quiet. His breath ghosted across the nape of your neck, warm and slightly uneven now.

“Stop moving,” Heeseung muttered, voice so low it vibrated against your skin.

“I’m not,” you whispered back, sharper than you meant to. But you had shifted—just a little—trying to create even an inch of space that didn’t exist. The movement only made your hips brush against his, and you both froze.

That flutter in your stomach dropped lower.

Heeseung’s hand, still braced on the floor near your waist, tightened slightly, fingers pressing into the hardwood like he was fighting the urge to grip something else. His forehead nearly touched the back of your head.

“Fuck,” he breathed, so quietly you almost missed it. “This is ridiculous.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt tight, and that weird sensation was spreading—warmth crawling up your chest, heat pooling between your legs. You hated how aware you were of him. The faint scent of his skin, the way his thigh was almost slotted against yours, the solid line of his body curved behind you like it was made to fit there.

Another soft snore came from the guy behind him, and Heeseung got pushed forward again. This time there was no saving it—his hips pressed flush against your ass, and you felt the unmistakable hardness growing there.

Your eyes widened. Heat flooded your face.

“Heeseung—” you started, voice barely a whisper, mmhalf something else.

“Don’t,” he cut you off, strained. His lips were so close to your ear now. “Don’t say anything. It’s… it’s just biology, okay? I’m tired. You’re warm. That’s all.”

But he didn’t pull away.

And you didn’t shove him back.

Instead, you stayed perfectly still, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it too. That flutter in your stomach had turned into a full ache now, low and insistent. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, and the small movement made you brush against him again.

Heeseung let out a shaky exhale through his nose, almost a hiss. His free hand twitched like he wanted to grab your hip but stopped himself halfway, fingers hovering just above your waist.

“You’re shaking,” he observed quietly. There was no smugness in his voice for once—just raw tension.

“I’m not,” you lied.

His dark chuckle was barely audible. “Liar.”

The silence stretched again, heavier this time. Charged. You could feel every inch of where your bodies touched—his chest to your back, his hips to your ass, his knees slightly bent behind yours. The rivalry that usually burned between you felt like it was melting into something else entirely.

You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes were already on you, dark and intense, pupils blown wide. His lips were parted, breath coming a little faster.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then Heeseung’s gaze dropped to your mouth again, longer this time.

“…If you tell anyone about this,” he whispered, voice rough, “I’ll make your life hell.”

You swallowed. “Same goes for you.”

But neither of you moved away.

And when his fingers finally brushed—barely—against your waist, you didn’t push his hand off.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, trying desperately to force sleep to come.

One sheep… two sheep… three sheep…

It was useless. The counting only made you more aware of your own breathing, which was too shallow. Every inhale pressed your back more firmly against Heeseung’s chest. Every exhale made you feel the hard line of his body even more—especially the unmistakable heat and stiffness nestled against your ass.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

The warm flutter in your stomach had turned into a deep, throbbing ache between your thighs. You pressed them together again, but that only made it worse, sending a small shiver up your spine. You felt Heeseung’s breath hitch against the back of your neck.

“Stop squirming,” he whispered, voice dangerously low and rough. His fingers, still hovering near your waist, finally settled—lightly, almost hesitantly—on your hip. Not gripping. Just… resting there. Like he couldn’t stop himself.

“I’m not squirming,” you hissed back, eyes still shut. “I’m trying to sleep. Shut up.”

But your voice came out breathier than you wanted. You bit your lip hard, counting again in your head. Four sheep... fifth sheep...

It didn’t work. All you could focus on was the way his cock twitched against you when you shifted, the way his chest rose and fell faster now, the way his breath was scorching the sensitive skin of your nape.

Heeseung let out a quiet, frustrated groan, barely audible. His forehead dropped forward until it rested against the back of your head.

“You’re killing me here,” he muttered, so close his lips brushed your hair. “Just… stop moving for five seconds.”

“I’m trying,” you snapped under your breath. Your hand clenched into a fist against the cold floor. “This stupid feeling won’t go away. Damn it…”

He went still.

“What feeling?” His voice had dropped even lower. dangerously curious.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Admitting it out loud would make it too real.

But your silence said enough.

Heeseung’s fingers flexed on your hip, pressing just a fraction harder. Not pulling you back, but definitely not letting you escape either. His hips moved—barely—an involuntary little roll that pushed his hard length more firmly between your clothed cheeks.

You sucked in a sharp breath.

“Fuck…” he breathed, almost like a curse and a confession at the same time. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

You kept your eyes screwed shut, heart pounding wildly. The ache between your legs was getting unbearable, a slick warmth starting to gather in your panties. You hated how your body was betraying you, especially with him.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

Heeseung let out a soft, dark chuckle against your neck, the sound sending goosebumps racing down your arms.

“Yeah?” His lips ghosted over your skin as he spoke. “Then why are you so warm right now? Why is your breathing all messed up?”

His hand slid slowly, cautiously, from your hip to your stomach, stopping just under your ribs.

You didn’t push him away.

And when his thumb brushed in a small, soothing circle over your shirt, the sensation in your stomach flared hotter.

“Damn it, Heeseung…” you whispered again, half plea, half surrender. Your eyes stayed closed, but your body leaned back into him just the tiniest bit.

You hissed through gritted teeth, voice barely above a breath, “Stop moving, god damn it—stop moving.”

Your body was betraying you with every word. Even as you said it, your hips gave a tiny, involuntary push back against him, chasing the friction you were trying so hard to deny.

Heeseung’s breath stuttered hot against the back of your neck. His hand on your stomach tensed, fingers curling slightly into your shirt like he was anchoring himself.

“I’m not—” he started, but his voice cracked into a low, rough whisper. “Fuck, you’re the one who keeps shifting.”

He was lying. Sort of.

Because even while he spoke, his hips rolled forward again, almost imperceptible, but enough to drag his hard cock more firmly against your ass. The thin fabric of your clothes did nothing to hide how much he wanted this. How much he hated wanting this.

You clenched your jaw, eyes still squeezed shut, trying to fight the slick heat pooling between your thighs. “Then stay still,” you hissed again, sharper this time. “Or I swear I’ll elbow you in the ribs.”

Heeseung let out a quiet, breathless scoff that sounded more like a groan. His forehead pressed harder against the back of your head, his lips now dangerously close to your ear.

“You say that…” he murmured, voice dark and strained, “…but your body’s not listening.”

His hand slowly slid lower on your stomach, stopping right at the waistband of your pants. Not dipping inside. Just resting there. Tempting.

You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your back, fast and unsteady. His cock throbbed once against you, and the sensation made your stomach flip hard.

“Shit…” he cursed under his breath. “You have no idea how much I hate you right now.”

But he still didn’t pull away.

Instead, his nose brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered, so quietly it was almost sinful

“…And you have no idea how badly I want to flip you over and shut that pretty mouth up.”

Your breath hitched loudly in the dark.

The ache between your legs pulsed.

And neither of you moved an inch.

You hissed under your breath, voice trembling with both fury and something far more shameful, “You’re such a whore then—”

The words barely left your lips before Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling your hips back against him with a slow, deliberate grind. His hard cock pressed firmly between your ass cheeks, throbbing even through the layers of fabric.

He let out a low, dangerous chuckle right against your ear, the sound rough and dripping with irritation and lust.

“Yeah?” he whispered hotly, lips brushing your skin. “I’m the whore? Then why the fuck are you so wet I can feel the heat through your clothes?”

Your face burned with humiliation. You wanted to snap back, to push him away, but your body was a traitor—your back arched slightly, pressing harder into his chest as another involuntary shiver ran through you. Your thighs squeezed together, but that only made the aching throb between your legs worse.

Heeseung’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing just beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing bare skin. His breath was ragged now.

“Say it again,” he taunted quietly, voice dark. “Call me a whore while your ass keeps rubbing against my dick like you’re begging for it.”

You bit your lip hard, trying to stay quiet as his hips rolled again, filthy, grinding into you with just enough pressure to make your head spin. The slickness between your thighs was undeniable now, your panties growing damp and sticky.

“I hate you,” you breathed, but it came out like a moan instead of an insult.

Heeseung smirked against your neck, teeth grazing your skin for a split second.

“Liar,” he murmured. His fingers dipped a little lower, tracing the waistband of your pants. “Your body’s telling the truth. So fucking honest right now…”

He pushed forward again, trapping you tighter between his body and the floor. The tension was suffocating.

Neither of you was sleeping tonight.

“I- I can’t take this anymore,” you hissed, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you saw sparks behind your lids.

Your voice cracked with frustration, shame, and something far needier. The ache between your legs had become unbearable—hot, slick, and pulsing with every tiny shift of his body against yours. You hated how desperate you sounded. You hated even more that it was true.

Heeseung’s breath hitched sharply against your neck. For a second he went completely still, as if your words had stunned him. Then his hand on your waist gripped harder, fingers digging into your skin through your shirt like he was barely holding himself back.

“Can’t take what?” he whispered, voice low, dark, and dangerously close to your ear. “Can’t take me being this hard against you? Or can’t take how badly you want it?”

He rolled his hips forward again, slower this time, more intentional. His clothed cock dragged firmly between your ass cheeks, pressing right against where you were throbbing the most. A quiet, broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.

Heeseung cursed under his breath.

“Fuck… you’re shaking,” he murmured, almost like he was in pain. His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he continued, “You’ve been grinding back on me for the last ten minutes, acting like you hate it. But we both know that’s bullshit.”

His hand slid lower, boldly slipping under the hem of your shirt until his palm was flat against your bare stomach. The heat of his touch made your muscles jump.

You kept your eyes closed, biting down hard on your lip. Your breathing was ragged now, chest rising and falling too fast.

“I hate you,” you whispered again, but it sounded wrecked

Heeseung let out a soft, mocking laugh that vibrated against your back.

“Yeah? Then tell me to stop,” he challenged quietly, his fingers slowly tracing circles on your skin, inching dangerously lower toward the waistband of your pants. “Tell me to get the fuck away from you right now… and I’ll try.”

His hips gave another lazy, teasing grind, pressing his hardness right against your ass as if to prove his point.

You didn’t say it.

You couldn’t.

Instead, your head tilted back slightly, unconsciously offering more of your neck as a broken exhale left your lips.

Heeseung’s voice dropped even lower, barely audible, rough with want.

“That’s what I thought.”

His fingers finally dipped just beneath the waistband of your pants, hovering there, waiting.

“Last chance,” he breathed against your skin, lips brushing the sensitive spot right below your ear. “Tell me to stop… or tell me what you really need.”

His hand stilled, but his cock kept throbbing insistently against you.

Your heart was hammering so loud you were scared it would wake the others.

“Shut up,” you hissed, voice shaking with frustration and raw need. “Just fucking start already.”

Before Heeseung could even respond, you pushed your ass back against him harder, grinding deliberately against the thick, hard length straining in his pants. At the same time, you grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand upward, shoving it under your shirt until his palm was cupping your breast.

Heeseung’s entire body jerked against you.

“Fuck—” he choked out in a strangled whisper, eyes widening in the dark.

You tugged your shirt higher yourself, bunching it up just below your collarbone, exposing your bare chest to his touch. No bra. His warm, rough hand immediately squeezed your breast, thumb brushing over your already hard nipple.

Heeseung let out a low, shaky groan right against your neck, hips rolling forward to meet your grinding. His cock twitched hard against your ass as he palmed your breast greedily, squeezing and kneading like he’d been dying to touch you.

“You’re actually insane,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Pushing your tits into my hand while calling me a whore…”

He pinched your nipple between his fingers, rolling it slowly, sending a sharp spark of pleasure straight down between your legs. You bit your lip hard to keep quiet, but a tiny whimper still escaped.

Heeseung’s other arm slid under you, wrapping around your waist and pulling you even tighter against his body. His hips started moving in slow, filthy grinds—pressing his clothed cock between your cheeks like he was fucking you through the fabric.

“Keep doing that,” he whispered hotly against your ear, lips brushing your skin with every word. “Keep rubbing your ass on me like a needy little slut.”

His hand on your breast grew rougher, squeezing harder as his breathing turned ragged. He rolled your nipple again, then slid his hand to your other breast, giving it the same attention while his hips kept that slow, torturous rhythm against you.

You could feel how wet you were now—your panties soaked, the ache almost painful.

Heeseung pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck, then lightly dragged his teeth there.

“Tell me how far you want this to go,” he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, “because if you keep pushing back on my dick like that… I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

His fingers pinched your nipple again, harder this time, as if daring you to moan loud enough for someone to wake up.

You leaned back closer into him, lips barely brushing his jaw as you whispered hotly against his skin,

“Don’t stop then… or are you scared? Show me how brave you are.”

The challenge had barely left your mouth before Heeseung snapped.

He didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

With a sharp, impatient tug, he yanked his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, heavy and burning hot against your skin. In the same movement, his other hand roughly pulled your jogging pants and panties down in one swift motion, dragging them halfway down your thighs.

Cold air hit your bare ass and soaked pussy for only a moment before Heeseung pressed forward again. His thick, bare cock slid right between your thighs, gliding along your dripping folds.

“Fuck…” he growled low in your ear, voice trembling with restraint. “You’re soaked.”

He rocked his hips, letting his cock slide back and forth between your thighs, the head bumping teasingly against your swollen clit with every pass. One of his hands returned to your breast, squeezing hard, while the other gripped your hip, fingers digging into your skin as he held you in place.

“You talk so much shit,” he breathed, dragging his cock slowly along your slit again, coating himself in your wetness, “but look at you… pushing your bare pussy against me like a desperate whore.”

You bit down hard on your lip to stop yourself from moaning. The feeling of his hot, hard length sliding between your folds was driving you insane. Every slow thrust made the head of his cock nudge your entrance before sliding back up to rub your clit.

Heeseung leaned in, lips pressed right against your ear as he whispered darkly,

“You wanted brave?”

He pulled his hips back slightly, angled himself, and pushed forward.

The thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slowly stretching you open as he started sinking inside you from behind, inch by inch.

He groaned quietly into your hair, the sound rough.

“Shit… you’re so fucking tight.”

He didn’t stop. He kept pushing deeper, filling you up slowly but relentlessly, his hand tightening on your breast as he buried himself to the hilt inside you.

Both of you froze for a second, breathing hard, bodies locked together on the floor.

Then Heeseung’s hips started moving — slow, deep, filthy thrusts, careful not to make too much noise but hard enough that you felt every inch of him dragging inside you.

“Still think I’m scared?” he rasped against your neck, biting down lightly as he fucked you. “Tell me how brave I am now…”

“Fuck… fine,” you gasped, voice barely a whisper, trembling. “You’re brave… fuck, you’re brave—”

You turned your head just enough to glance back at him over your shoulder. Your eyes met in the dim lamplight, and you stared at him—lips parted, biting down hard on your lower lip to keep from moaning too loud.

Heeseung’s dark gaze burned into yours, pupils blown wide with lust. Sweat already clung to his forehead, his jaw clenched tight as he buried himself deep inside you with another slow, powerful thrust.

“Yeah?” he breathed hotly against your mouth, lips hovering just inches from yours. “Say it again while I’m balls-deep in you.”

He snapped his hips forward harder this time, burying his cock to the hilt. A broken whimper escaped you before you could stop it. The stretch was intense, the angle perfect, every thick inch dragging against your walls in the most filthy way.

Heeseung’s hand slid up from your breast to grip your jaw, turning your face further toward him so he could watch you while he fucked you. His thrusts stayed deep and steady — controlled, but getting rougher with every roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he whispered roughly, eyes never leaving yours. “Look at me while you’re creaming all over my cock like you hate me.”

You bit your lip harder, eyes fluttering but refusing to close. The wet, quiet sound of skin meeting skin was barely masked by the heavy breathing between you. Every thrust pushed you forward slightly on the floor, his body completely molded to yours from behind.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he groaned lowly, the confession slipping out like he hated admitting it. His grip on your jaw tightened as he leaned in and caught your lips in a messy, desperate kiss — all tongue and teeth, trying to swallow down both your moans.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, panting.

“Still rivals?” he taunted in a husky whisper, slamming into you a little deeper, grinding his hips in small circles so his cock rubbed against that perfect spot inside you. “Or are you finally admitting you’ve been dying for me to fuck you stupid?”

His free hand slipped down between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, slick circles as he kept thrusting.

Your whole body trembled. You stared back at him, eyes glassy with pleasure, lips still bitten red.

Heeseung smirked against your mouth, dark and satisfied.

“That’s what I thought.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, hips picking up pace as much as he dared without waking the others.

Heeseung kept thrusting into you with deep, measured strokes, each one dragging a silent gasp from your throat. The pleasure was overwhelming, making your mind hazy.

You reached forward, pressing your hand flat against the cold wall for leverage, trying to steady yourself as his hips rocked into you from behind.

Heeseung noticed immediately.

Without warning, he hooked one arm under your knee and yanked your leg up and wider, spreading you open even more. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper, his cock hitting a spot that made your eyes roll back.

“Heeseung…” you whimpered breathlessly, the name slipping out like a broken plea.

“Fuck,” he groaned quietly against your neck, voice rough and strained. “Say my name like that again.”

He held your leg high, fingers digging into your thigh as he fucked you harder — still trying to stay quiet, but the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy was getting louder. His other hand stayed braced on the floor near your waist, caging you in while he drove into you with long, filthy strokes.

Every thrust pushed your chest harder against the floor, your shirt still bunched up, nipples rubbing against the fabric. Your hand on the wall curled into a fist as pleasure shot through you.

“Heeseung… ah—” you gasped again, biting your lip right after to muffle the sound.

He leaned over you, chest pressed flush to your back, lips right against your ear as he panted.

“Yeah? You like that?” he whispered, voice dark and mocking even while he was buried inside you. “Legs spread open for me on the fucking floor while our group is sleeping right next to us?”

He snapped his hips forward sharply, grinding deep, his cock rubbing perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you with every roll.

Your eyes fluttered, another soft “Heeseung…” escaping before you could stop it.

He smirked against your skin and bit down lightly on your shoulder, thrusting faster, deeper, chasing the pleasure he could no longer control.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he breathed, voice husky, “and I won’t be able to stop even if someone wakes up.”

His fingers on your thigh tightened, spreading you even wider as he fucked you relentlessly.

“I’m gonna cum… fuck— Heeseung,” you gasped, voice shaking and barely a whisper as your walls started clenching hard around his cock.

Heeseung’s breath hitched sharply. His eyes darkened instantly at your words.

“Shit— already?” he hissed against your ear, but there was clear satisfaction dripping from his tone. He yanked your leg even higher, spreading you obscenely wide as he fucked you deeper, faster, more desperately.

His hips snapped against your ass with wet, muffled slaps. He pressed his forehead hard against the back of your head, panting heavily.

“Then cum,” he growled lowly, voice rough and commanding. “Cum on my cock like the needy little slut you are. Right here. On the fucking floor.”

Heeseung’s hand left your thigh and slid down between your legs, rubbing tight, fast circles on your swollen clit while he kept pounding into you from behind.

Your hand on the wall trembled. Your whole body tensed, thighs shaking violently as the pressure built unbearably fast.

“Look at me,” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

You turned your head just enough. The second your eyes met his — dark, intense, and burning — your orgasm crashed into you.

You bit down hard on your own arm to muffle the moan that tried to rip out of you. Your pussy clenched and fluttered wildly around his thick cock, gushing slick heat as you came hard.

Heeseung groaned through gritted teeth, eyes locked on your face the entire time, watching you fall apart.

“Fuck— that’s it… good girl,” he rasped, still thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out. “So fucking tight when you cum.”

Your body kept shaking, waves of pleasure rolling through you as he fucked you through it. Heeseung’s rhythm started to falter, his own breathing turning ragged and desperate.

He buried his face in your neck, biting down to stay quiet as his hips stuttered.

“I’m close—” he warned, voice strained, hips slamming into you a little harder. “Where do you want it?”

His cock throbbed violently inside you, clearly right on the edge.

“My mouth,” you whispered desperately, voice hoarse and trembling. “Cum in my mouth.”

Heeseung’s eyes flashed with raw hunger at your words. He let out a shaky, almost pained exhale.

“Fuck… you’re filthy,” he groaned quietly, but the way his cock twitched hard inside you told you how much he liked it.

Without wasting another second, he pulled out of you slowly, his thick length glistening with your juices. You quickly turned around on the floor, facing him. Heeseung sat up slightly, leaning back against the wall while you moved between his legs.

He gripped your hair tightly with one hand, guiding your head down as his other hand stroked his slick cock a few times.

You didn’t hesitate.

You wrapped your lips around his throbbing tip, tasting yourself on him as you took him into your warm, wet mouth. Heeseung’s head fell back, jaw clenched tight as he fought to stay quiet.

“Shit— just like that,” he whispered, voice wrecked. His hips bucked up gently, pushing more of his cock into your mouth. “Suck it… fuck, your mouth feels so good.”

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside as you bobbed your head. Heeseung’s grip on your hair tightened, breathing fast and ragged.

“I’m so fucking close—” he warned, eyes locked on your lips stretched around him.

A few more strokes of your mouth and he broke.

With a choked, quiet groan, Heeseung came hard. Thick, hot spurts of cum filled your mouth as his cock pulsed against your tongue. He kept his hand in your hair, holding you there while he emptied himself, hips twitching.

You swallowed every drop, sucking him gently through the aftershocks until he was shuddering and oversensitive.

Finally, he pulled you off with a shaky breath, chest heaving. His dark eyes stared down at you, lips parted, sweat on his forehead.

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other in the dim light — faces flushed, breathing heavy, the rivalry still burning underneath everything… but now mixed with something much more dangerous.

Heeseung wiped the corner of your lip with his thumb, then pushed it into your mouth so you could lick it clean.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, voice low and rough.

He pulled you up and against his chest, both of you still half-naked on the floor, hearts still racing.

The next morning came too quickly.

You were already fully dressed, curled up on your side when a bright, cheerful voice echoed through the living room.

“Kids! Breakfast is ready~ Come eat before it gets cold!”

Your classmate’s mom clapped her hands a few times, her footsteps moving around the room as she gently shook the others awake. Groans and sleepy complaints filled the air as everyone started stirring.

You stretched your arms above your head with a soft groan, your back popping slightly. Your body felt sore in the best and worst ways — thighs aching, a faint throb between your legs, and the unmistakable reminder of last night with every small movement. You quickly sat up, fixing your messy hair and avoiding looking toward Heeseung.

But you could feel him.

Heeseung was already awake, sitting up a few feet away. His hair was tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep, and there was a faint red mark on his neck that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. He glanced at you the moment you moved, his gaze dark and unreadable.

For a split second, the memory hit you hard — his cock in your mouth, the way he groaned your name so quietly, the taste of him on your tongue.

Your cheeks burned.

“Morning everyone!” your classmate’s mom called again, smiling brightly. “There’s rice, eggs, and soup. Hurry up before the boys eat everything!”

The others slowly got up, yawning and stretching, completely oblivious. One of them even stepped over the exact spot where Heeseung had fucked you just hours ago.

You stood up and brushed off your clothes, pretending to be normal. But as you turned, Heeseung was suddenly right beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.

He leaned in slightly while everyone else was distracted, his voice low and rough against your ear.

“Sleep well?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smug little smirk. “You were moving around a lot last night.”

Your stomach flipped.

You shot him a sharp glare, cheeks heating up again. “Shut up,” you hissed under your breath. “Not a single word.”

Heeseung’s smirk only grew. He looked far too satisfied for someone who was supposed to be your rival.

As you both walked toward the dining area with the group, he stayed annoyingly close. His fingers brushed against the back of your hand for half a second — not quite holding it, but definitely not accidental.

You elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

“Asshole,” you muttered.

“Needy little liar,” he whispered back, so quietly only you could hear.

You sat down at the table across from each other. Every time your eyes met, the tension crackled. Heeseung’s gaze kept dropping to your lips for a second too long, like he was remembering exactly how they looked wrapped around him.

You kicked his leg under the table.

He kicked back.

But neither of you could hide the faint flush on your cheeks… or the way your heart raced every time he looked at you.

The rivalry wasn’t gone.

“are you gonna pay for gas?” he brings the blunt to his lips for yet another hit.

“no.” your hand instinctively reaches out for the blunt once he was done, only to be met with nothing but smoke when nicholas pulls it even further away from you.

“then I'm keeping the ac off.”

he stares at how flush your skin has gotten and pays even closer attention to how heavy your breaths are. you’re still trying to reach over and get a hold on the blunt. you prop yourself up on the handbrake while your other hand stretches out across nico’s torso, the smoke from his fresh exhale tickling your skin.

“hand it over, dude. you need to stop anyway, aren’t you driving back home?”

his hand is pretty much out the window and in the open at this point, whereas his eyes remain on you.

“I'll be completely fine, thank you.” his free hand lands on your waist, “looks like you’re struggling quite a bit, though.”

the shirt you’re wearing isn’t even that thin, yet his touch startles you and you’re suddenly met with his face mere centimeters away.

“give me the blunt.”

his gaze travels from his hand on you all the way up to your eyes. he doesn’t even know why he’s so worked up, but all he knows for sure right now is that he desperately needs you to stay right where you are.

“go on, take it from me.”

he stares straight daggers into you. your skin starts to tingle. it’s finally hitting, but you swear it couldn’t come at a worse time.

“what are you playing at, nico?” you feel his warm breaths against your skin. “give me the fucking blunt.”

his tongue swipes across his lower lip. “no.”

you’re done with his shit. “whatever,” you roll your eyes and right as you’re about to sit back down, his grip on your waist tightens.

“don’t move.” his voice is almost a whisper, you wouldn’t be able to hear it if you weren’t mere inches from him.

he pulls his hand back inside and raises the blunt to his lips. his lidded eyes are trained on you while he takes a slow, long hit. you think he's finally going to hand it over so you reach out. that's when his other hand that was on your waist shoots up to you jaw and pulls you close. the sudden action throws you off balance but nico steadies you when he pulls your lips onto his.

"breathe," he mutters under his breath before blowing the smoke from his hit into your mouth. it stings less than usual when it travels through you. he doesn't let you breathe it out immediately. rather, his lips keep sucking on yours, his teeth brushing over your lower lip, his tongue poking and prying your lips open.

"what are you doing?" it's hard to focus when your body feels engulfed in heat. from the weed or emanating from his body, you're not sure. your fingers don't feel like your own when they go from holding you up to twisting in his shirt. your body feels weightless as you climb over the center console onto nico's lap.

you finally get a chance to breathe out when nico pulls away, his lips swollen and red. you can't feel anything else inside your mouth other than the strange tingling sensation behind your teeth. you crave nico's mouth against yours again to dull it.

he takes one final hit of his blunt before putting it out. his eyes rake down your body, his vision all blurry except for the sight of you.

"hey, I still wanted to hit that." you stare down at him with your brows furrowed.

"don't worry, pretty." he chuckles before pulling you close again, "you can have more later."

his lips are back on yours. his grip around your waist tightens. his warm palm on your jaw is all you can feel while your brain hones in on his lips. how they're slightly chapped and bitten, how his breath fans over your skin whenever he pulls back to take a quick breath. how his tongue swipes over his lips before going back and indulging in the warmth of your lips. you can't even tell if your eyes are open or not because all you see is bursts of white and nico's sharp eyes staring at you from under his eyelids.

you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him impossibly closer. anything to get you through this trip, you thought. his hair feels soft. you tug his head back a little, far enough to catch a glimpse of his smirk.

"what the fuck was in that blunt?" your grip still tight in his hair. "doesn't feel like your usual shit."

his hand nudges at the skin under your shirt. "finally caught on?" his touch sends fiery chills up your spine. your body feels like it's floating and grounded at the same time. nico's hardness under you sits too well against your heat.

"friend hooked me up with a new strain," he glances down to your thighs draped over his lap. "said it's laced with something else. guess that something else is really doing it for you, huh?"

"shut up." you dive down into his lips again. this time driving forward with your tongue, reaching as far as you could. the strain in your thighs disappear as you grind onto him, swallowing his moans and the deep vibrations coming off his chest.

nico's hand travel up your spine, leaving a burning trail in its wake. he swiftly unhooks your bra and a wave of relief washes over you as your exposed nipples finally get the chance to brush against him. he flips the front of your shirt up and braw along with it and instantly latches his lips around your nipple.

you keep moving in messy circles on his ever hardening cock.

"fuck nico, I need you right now." your hips begin to stutter as you begin to lose awareness of your own body.

his hands move to grip your hips, helping you grind along with his sparse, and admittedly involuntary, thrusts up into you.

"when do you have to head back?" he releases your nipple with a wet pop.

you finally remember where you were, and where you're supposed to be right now. "in like fifteen minutes."

he licks a long stripe up your neck and end at your ear. the grooves on his tongue feel like sandpaper against your skin. "then get in the back." he pulls your shirt off you and throws your bra into the passenger seat. "now."

you hastily nod, and to the best of your ability, cross over the center console and into the backseat. nico gets the driver's side door, shutting it before climbing in with you in the back.

he sits back and works on unbuckling his belt, all while you crawl into the tight space between his legs and the back of the front seat.

"now put that those pretty lips to use." he looks down at you, his eyes barely able to focus on the way you purse your plump lips before placing small kitten licks up his angry shaft. your warm breath against his tip sending waves of heat all the way up his neck. he takes your hair in a harsh grip, "keep teasing me and you're not walking out of this parking lot later."

you press your fingertips into his clenched thighs as you take his leaking tip into your mouth. his precum coating your tongue with a delicious saltiness. you can't feel the pain in your jaw as you take him deeper, the tingle on your scalp and the heat pooling between your legs taking priority.

"that's a good fucking girl." he stares at how your lips wrap around his cock, thrusting up slightly to meet your desperate bobs. your spit pools around the of his cock, dripping down your chin and neck.

"you're gonna take it all, yeah?" he holds your head still as he begins to thrust up harder and faster into the warm chasm of your mouth. "all my cum, you're gonna take it." tears start to blur your vision and the tingling in the back of your throat grows to one that burns worse with every harsh thrust. but you take it, your tongue, your lips, your throat, all welcoming the intrusion.

he throws his head back as you gag around his cock. "fuck," he mutters quiet and barely coherent curses as he unloads into your mouth and down your throat. your lips are still latched tight around him, letting his cum pour into your mouth. you feel full already.

once he settles down, he looks at you. his deep red hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, and pupils so dilated you wonder if it's from the blunt or not. "up."

you don't need to be told twice as you climb up and hoist yourself onto the seat. he instantly turns and presses your body until your back touches the cool leather. he makes quick work of your sweats and throws them into the front seat.

he plays with the hem of your panties as he stares at the wet spot between your legs, his tongue wetting his lips. "someone's excited." he presses his knuckles up against the wet spot and chuckles. "need me that bad, huh?"

"stop talking and fuck me already, nico." your toes clench despite there being little to no friction. you feel the imprint of his rings against your clit through the wet fabric. "fucking asshole."

"guess getting high as fuck still doesn't quell that dirty little mouth of yours." he pulls off your panties and stuffs them in your mouth. "maybe this will help."

you're about to object but all that remains of your coherent thoughts immediately vanish when his lips wrap around you. using his fingers to spread you open, he sucks and nibbles at your clit, not letting up until you dig your nails into his scalp. not that he's done, though, he slides his tongue down your folds and prods at your leaking entrance, groaning at the scent of your heat.

"all ready for me," he mutters before pushes his tongue in. his fingers that were previously spreading you open move to pinch at your swollen bud.

you see bursts of white. you don't know whether they're real or not because you can't even tell if your eyes are open or not. you realize your mouth is agape but you're unsure how loud you're being. every time you breath out, your warm breath stings the back of your teeth.

to nicholas, the pretty gasps and pants dripping from you is like music to his ears. he presses his tongue up against your walls harder just to hear you sob louder.

various fluids pool on the leather underneath you. nicholas lets his spit and your precum drip down his chin. every time he switches between sucking on your clit and fucking you with his tongue, his chin drags deliciously through your folds.

"don't stop." you try to say but the bundle of fabric in your mouth muffles your words. you raise your hips up into his mouth, desperate for more.

much to your displeasure, he pulls away, the knot in your stomach loosening in a hot puddle inside you. seeing you frustrated, he finally takes your underwear from between your teeth. "fuck you, nico."

"of course, pretty." are the last words you hear before he stretches you open with his cock, burying it deep inside you. he has your legs in his hands and he sheathes himself fully in you. "since you need me to fuck you so bad," he leans his weight onto you and presses your knees into the seat, folding you in half, "you're gonna get all of me. hope you're ready, slut."

large is an understatement. you can't see where he's entering you right now, your head rolling back and your eyes unfocused, but you feel utterly powerless under the pressure of his cock splitting you open. every time he pushes back into you, you feel your body jump and jolt from the sensation alone. his fingers press into the back of your knees, and under his vice grip you get the feeling you won't be able to move even if you wanted to. so you take it. you take every deep thrust and and brutal intrusion, your pussy screaming in both pleasure and pain. maybe you're screaming too, but you don't care anymore.

every time you feel his weight slam back into you, you feel the sensation wash over you, smothering you in exquisitely suffocating pleasure. every inch of you burns. the slight tingle from earlier having amplified into a impeccably searing pain stretching across you.

you dig your nails into the leather as you feel your mind leave you. all thoughts gone as the feeling of nicholas' cock brushing up against your walls takes over and leaves you speechless, yet your mouth agape and letting out a continuous string of curses, pleas, and a combination that sounds too good in nicholas' ears. you cum screaming bloody murder, nicholas' name tasting heavenly coming from your lips. something snaps inside you. gone is your agency you prided yourself on. all you know now is how nicholas keeps burying his cock deep inside you.

"perfect little cunt swallowing me whole." seeing you unravel under him brings him to his limit quicker than he had expected, your sweaty, flushed, body under him prettier than he had ever imagined. all those nights spent thinking of your mouth or cunt around his cock as he desperately fucks into his hand pales in comparison to the real thing. every time your boobs bounce with his thrusts, or every time you feverishly moan his name aloud forces his timer to tick down faster, his composure thinning.

drops of sweat travel down his temples, gathering at his chin before dropping onto your stomach. everything else is a blur and you're the only thing that remains clear and crisp in his vision. his princess. his slut. everything he needs. your endlessly pretty form under him taking his cock so well, welcoming every thrust with each flutter of your tight, clenched walls.

"gonna fill you up," his hips stutter, "can't hold it anymore. you're too fucking tight, pretty." after pounding you one last time, he releases inside you. his warm load filling you up until you feel full, too full, like you can't handle taking all of him. that doesn't bother nicholas, though, he makes sure not a single drop leaves your quivering hole. scooping it all back up inside you with his cock, ignoring how each swipe, stroke, and nudge sends his body into overdrive as well.

that's when his phone rings. he plans to ignore it completely but one glance at the contact name has him thinking. he reaches over to grab his phone in the front seat and clicks on answer.

you're still trying to catch your breath and your ability to think when, out of nowhere you hear a voice.

"dude where are you?" a man's voice comes from the phone in nicholas' hand.

"umm, parking lot behind the college." nicholas answers breathlessly, yet a small smirk forms on his tired expression.

"wh- the college? why the fuck are you-," the man cuts himself off, "-why do you look like that?"

"well, yuma," nicholas starts again, using his other hand to drag his still-swollen tip through your cum soaked folds, "that shit you gave me worked real well." he flips the camera and points it down at your wrecked cunt. "here's a thank you."

"wh- oh fuck, nico." the man on the other end, presumably yuma, clears his throat before chuckling slowly. "you're fucking insane."

> end of file reached. see you again soon!

tag list: @1009high, @luneilyyyy

You didn’t know if any of that was true. But what you did know was that your friends wanted weed and were too scared to go get it themselves. So they asked you. Apparently, being the quiet one made you the designated “safe” option. It wasn’t like you and Weno were strangers, anyway. You’d talked a few times now. Nothing long, quick chats during pickups, the occasional hi at a party when you passed by each other. He’d never made you feel weird or unsafe. Just… flustered. A little warm in the chest, a little unsure what to say next. He had a way of watching you that felt deliberate, even when he said nothing at all. Your friend had shoved some cash into your hand at the last minute, babbling about how “he’s chill, he’s not scary, just please go for me, I can’t” — and you’d sighed, texting him before you could overthink it. He told you to meet him behind the dorms. 6:30. You almost didn’t go. You weren’t sure why he made you nervous, he hadn’t done anything to deserve that label. But something about him felt sharp beneath all the calm. Like he could see through you if he wanted to. When you rounded the corner that evening, he was already leaning against the side of his car, phone in hand, headphones around his neck. The sun was low, painting the edges of his face gold. You caught yourself staring before you could stop. He looked up as you approached. “Didn’t expect you,” he said, not moving. You blinked, “Why?” He shrugged, “Thought one of your loud friends would be the one to show. You’re not really the type to do this.” It wasn’t teasing exactly, but the way he said it made your face warm. You cleared your throat. “They made me come.” “Mm,” he hummed. “Figured.”

He pushed off the car, pulling a ziplock from his hoodie pocket. You reached for it automatically, but he didn’t hand it over right away. “You ever tried it?” You shook your head. “No. It’s not really… my thing.” He tilted his head slightly. Not judging, just observing. “Didn’t think it was.” he chuckled softly, then he handed it to you, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. You looked down at your hand, not at the bag, but at where your skin still tingled. “You’re good,” he said quietly, “Let me know next time.” You nodded, muttered a soft thanks, already starting to turn away, but then he said your name. You froze and glanced back. He was still standing by his car, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keys around his finger. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip, like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. “You always do stuff for your friends?” His tone was casual, but the question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?” He shrugged a little. “They want something, and you’re the one who shows up.” A pause. “That happen a lot?”You weren’t sure how to answer. It did happen a lot. They asked, you went. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt easier than saying no. You glanced down at the ziplock in your hand. “I guess,” you mumbled. “I don’t know.” He hummed low, like that told him everything he needed to know. You looked back up, ready to say something else—anything, maybe even defend yourself, but he beat you to it. “You’re a good girl.” The words were soft and genuine, but they landed heavy. Your breath caught. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, calm, like he hadn’t just said something that made your skin go warm all over. You didn’t know what to do with that. You didn’t even know what it meant coming from him. You just knew it made something flutter in your stomach. “Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You turned and walked off a little too quickly, heart pounding, ears hot, his voice still echoing behind your ribs. You’re a good girl. You didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. It wasn’t long before your friends asked again. Same excuse, same tone, a whiny “please, he already knows you” and cash pushed into your hand like you owed them something. You hesitated more this time. Not because of them, but because of him. You hadn’t stopped thinking about last time. It replayed in your head again and again. You stared at his contact in your phone for some minutes before typing out the message.

You

hey my friends wanna grab again

He replied two minutes later.

Weno

same place 7:30

When you showed up this time, he was inside his car, driver’s door open, music playing low through the speakers. He looked up as you approached and smiled, lazy and half-lidded. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Hey.”You tried not to sound nervous. You weren’t even sure why you were nervous. This wasn’t new. You’d done this before. But this time, it felt different. You felt different. He stepped out, shutting the car door behind him as he pulled the same ziplock from the pocket of his jeans. You took it wordlessly, but his fingers brushed yours again, on purpose this time. You could feel it in the way he didn’t rush, didn’t pull away immediately. “Still not trying it?” he asked, tilting his head. You shook your head. “Not yet.” He raised a brow. “Why not?” “I just… haven’t.” You tucked the bag quickly into your jacket pocket like it might deflect the attention. “You scared?” The way he asked it wasn’t mocking, just curious, like he wanted to understand you, not challenge you. You hesitated. “No,” you said finally. “Just don’t wanna.” He nodded slowly, watching you again with that unreadable expression. “Still doing things for your friends, though.” You pressed your lips together. “I guess.” “They ever do stuff for you?” You blinked. “What?” He shrugged. “Just wondering.” You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one. He could probably tell, because he didn’t push. He just looked at you for a long second, eyes dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to meet your gaze as he rolled a blunt for him. “You should stop letting people use you.” The bluntness of it caught you off guard. You shifted on your feet, unsure whether to say thank you or tell him it wasn’t like that, even though maybe it was. “You don’t even like them that much, do you?” Your breath hitched. “They’re my friends.” “Mm,” he hummed. “If you say so.”

After that, it happened a few more times. The same routine: a text, a time, a quiet walk behind the dorms where he’d be waiting. Sometimes he was standing. Sometimes in the driver’s seat with the door open. Sometimes already smoking, low music humming from the speakers. And each time, it got a little easier to look him in the eye. But also harder not to look too long. Weno never talked much. He didn’t fill silence just to hear himself speak. He asked things, small things, personal in ways that didn’t feel invasive, just seen. He was trying to piece you together quietly, without making a show of it. You’d come with your friends’ money in your pocket and leave with more than you paid for. Not every time, but enough that you noticed. When you offered to give him more, he just shook his head, said “You’re good,” and he meant it, it wasn’t just about the cash anymore. You didn’t tell your friends about how often you started going. Sometimes it wasn’t even about picking up anymore. You’d hand over the cash, but he’d wave it off. “Not this time.” You started to wonder if he even gave you real amounts. If this was still a deal or just an excuse. What you did know was that somewhere along the way, something started to shift.

It was in the way your pulse picked up when his name lit up your screen. In how you started getting ready earlier than you needed to. In how you made sure your outfit and make up was cute before leaving, like that would help keep your face from giving you away when he looked at you like he always did. It was on the low. No one really knew how often you were seeing him now—certainly not your friends. To them, it was still just you doing the awkward task they were too scared for. They didn’t know that half the time you went to Weno now, it wasn’t even because of them. Sometimes they didn’t ask at all—you just found yourself texting him anyway. And he always said yes. You weren’t sure when it stopped being about weed. You weren’t sure it ever really was. Sometimes you’d sit with him for a while. In the passenger seat of his car, parked in the same quiet lot behind the dorms. He’d roll one and lean back with the window cracked, slow smoke curling out into the night while music filled the silence. He never pushed anything on you. Never asked why you stayed. But you stayed. You weren’t good at talking about yourself, and he didn’t make you. He just gave you space to exist, and maybe that was what started doing it. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling warmer every time you saw him. More sure that he saw you. And you started to open up to him. You two would hang out and talk about anything and anyone very frequently.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, jacket zipped halfway. The night was cool, and the air smelled like weed and cologne, smoke curling from the blunt between his fingers. His playlist low in the background that made it feel like time moved slower in his car. You hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. Just sat there, letting the silence hang. But it wasn’t awkward. Weno never made things awkward. You gave him a small smile, eyes drifting out the window. The streetlights cast a warm glow across the dashboard. He tapped the ash into the tray and leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of your seat like he didn’t even think about it. “I don’t get it,” you said quietly after a moment. “You do this with all your clients?” “Do what?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, playful but unreadable. “This.” You motioned vaguely between you. “Sit in the car, talk like this, not charge them.” He chuckled once, deep and soft in his chest. “No.” You blinked. “No?” He turned his head, looked right at you, and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “They’re not you.” Your stomach fluttered. You tried to play it off, but your smile gave you away. He tilted his head slightly, watching you through the soft haze in the car. “You know you’re my favorite, right?” Your head snapped toward him. “What?” He smirked, exhaled a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Client,” he added after a beat, but the pause was on purpose. His smirk deepened like he knew what he was doing to you. Your face went warm immediately. “Shut up,” you muttered, covering your smile with your hand. “I’m serious.” His tone was calm. “You don’t talk much, you don’t ask dumb questions, you never waste my time.” “Oh,” you said quietly. But your smile stayed. “So I’m convenient.” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping low. “Nah. You’re cute.” Your heart jumped. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to say. So you laughed—awkward and soft, trying to bury your face in your hands like that might cool your cheeks. You left a little later than usual that night.

Three days later, when your screen lit up with a text from him, you answered in less than a minute.

Weno

u free tonight?

wanna chill for a bit?

♡

You

yeah :)

same spot?

♡

Weno

pull up at 10

no rush

You tried not to read into it too much. But you still picked out a different hoodie this time, your favorite one, did a little extra on your make up, styled your hair in way you knew framed your face best. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything. But your hands still felt warm as you walked out to meet him. His car was already there when you arrived. You climbed into the passenger seat, familiar now with the way the door stuck a little when you pulled it. Same playlist was on, and the heat was turned up just enough to make the inside feel cozy. He glanced over as you settled in, eyes flicking down to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Hey,” he said, voice smooth, quiet. “Hey,” you murmured back, smiling a little.

The next hour passed easily, like it always did when you were with him. You talked about nothing and everything, classes, music, random campus drama you weren’t even involved in, movies you both halfway remembered, the last weird dream you had. He laughed more than usual tonight, low and slow, eyes squinting a little when something you said caught him off guard. His hand rested on the steering wheel as he listened, thumb tapping the leather in a lazy rhythm. He made you feel comfortable, like whatever you had to say mattered even if it didn’t. Like he was listening just because it was you talking. At some point, he lit up. You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward to spark the lighter, the soft flick of it barely cutting into the music. He offered it to you once out of habit, holding the blunt out between two fingers, and this time you didn’t shake your head immediately. You hesitated. Then, before you could overthink it, you took it. Your fingers brushed his. His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze lingered longer than before. “You sure?” he asked, voice soft, a little more serious now. You slowly nodded. “Yeah. Just—don’t laugh at me if I cough.” He smiled, “I won’t.” He leaned back into his seat. “Promise.” You inhaled, a small hit, like you’d seen him do a hundred times now. It burned, made your throat tickle, your eyes water just a little, but you didn’t cough. He watched carefully, still smiling. “Good girl,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened at the words, heat blooming under your skin before you could stop it. You handed it back to him quickly, trying to focus on the burn in your lungs, the soft thrum of bass in the background, anything except how warm you suddenly felt. Time got slower after that. An hour passed in a haze, soft laughter, lazy conversation, both of you sinking deeper into your seats, the windows fogging slightly. He smoked again, and passed it back and forth to you. Your body felt lighter. Music melted into the background, his voice a little rough now. You both stared out at the empty parking lot for a while, just existing. It was quiet in the way that felt close, not awkward. Every time your knee brushed his, he didn’t move. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked toward your mouth, then back to the road like he didn’t want to get caught looking. And maybe it was the high, or the way the space between you had been shrinking since the start, but something changed. You turned to say something and caught him already looking at you, staring. His arm was still draped behind your seat, but now his fingers were brushing your shoulder, light and casual. You blinked at him. “What?” you whispered, voice lower than before. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, eyes warm, thoughtful. “C’mere.” You didn’t even think. You just leaned forward, heart thudding quietly behind your ribs as his hand slid slowly to the back of your neck. He tilted his head slightly. His lips brushed yours soft at first, testing. Then again, firmer. You leaned into it. Your heart stuttered, hands unsure of where to go. One found the edge of his hoodie. The other pressed lightly to his chest. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about this for a while. He wasn’t in any rush now that it was finally happening. You kissed him back slow, high and a little breathless, your skin buzzing all over. He pulled back eventually, just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“You’re high,” he said, almost teasing. “So are you,” you whispered. He smiled, gaze dropping to your lips again. “Yeah. But I still meant it.” You smiled, small and dazed, and tucked your legs under you again, curling back into your seat. The car was quiet for a few more minutes. Nothing changed. But everything had. And when you finally said you should go, he didn’t stop you. Just nodded, reached over, and opened the door for you like he always did. Before you stepped out, he caught your wrist gently. You turned back. His eyes searched yours for a moment. “Text me when you get in.” You nodded, “Okay.”

You

made it home :)

♡

Weno

good

was starting to think u got lost

♡

You

nope

just still thinking

♡

Weno

about?

♡

You

you

♡

Weno

yeah?

what part

♡

You

the obvious part

♡

Weno

mm

i liked that part too

didn’t rlly want u to go

♡

You

u didn’t?

♡

Weno

nah

wanted to kiss u again

♡

You

i wanted to too

but i got nervous :(

♡

Weno

it’s ok bby

will i see u again soon?

♡

You

yeah

if u want to

♡

Weno

i do

♡

You

can’t wait

goodnight weno :)

♡

Weno

me neither

gn <3

You didn’t stop thinking about that night. Or his texts. Or when he said he wanted to kiss you again. The way your heart stuttered when he called you bby like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was already normal between you. It wasn’t, not really. But it was starting to be. You’d kept texting after that. Not every second of the day, but enough. Little check-ins, good mornings, music recs, late night questions that felt heavier than they sounded. He was never overly forward, not the type to blow up your phone or say things just to get a reaction, but everything he did say stuck with you. You were head over heels. Smiling at your phone and then burying your face in your pillow like an idiot every time. So when one of your friends mentioned the party coming up—some frat guy’s birthday, everyone was going, “you have to come, it’s gonna be huge”—you didn’t think much of it at first. Until she added, casually, “Pretty sure Weno’s gonna be there too, so you can’t get us some stuff as well?” That made your heart skip. You played it off, said “yeah, cool” and shrugged, but your brain had already started spiraling. What if you saw him? What if you didn’t? What if he ignored you in front of everyone? What if he didn’t? You told yourself you weren’t going for him. But you still stood in front of your closet longer than usual. You picked a dress—short, tight, something you hadn’t worn before. Simple, but it hugged you in all the right places. You did your makeup with more care than usual, spritzed perfume on your neck, your wrists, let your hair fall soft and full around your shoulders. You didn’t tell anyone why you looked a little extra tonight. But you kind of hoped he’d be there. And you really hoped he’d notice.

The house was already packed by the time you got there—music thumping through the walls, bodies crammed together in every corner, red cups in almost every hand. Lights low, flashing sometimes, music echoing through a speaker in the living room. It smelled like sweat, beer, weed, and cheap cologne. Typical. Your friends disappeared as soon as you walked in, squealing at someone they recognized near the kitchen. You stayed back for a second, just long enough to scan the crowd. Not because you were looking for anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. And then you saw Weno. Leaning against the far wall near the stairs, hoodie half-zipped over a white tank, cargo pants hanging low on his hips, the hem of his boxers peeking a little. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking loud or laughing or drinking like the rest of them. Just standing there, calm and unreadable, eyes lazily moving through the room like he’d been here a hundred times before. He was talking to someone, dapping them up quick, pulling something from his pocket and handing it off like it was nothing. No one looked twice. Just a quiet exchange, over in seconds. He didn’t try to be subtle, he didn’t have to. People came to him. You stayed near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, pretending to be more focused on your friends than you were. But your eyes kept drifting back. He looked good. Effortlessly good. And he hadn’t seen you yet. You tried not to look over too often. Tried to focus on your friends and their chaotic conversations, the loud music, the colorful lights. You laughed at jokes that didn’t really register. Nodded along. Sipped water from your cup and told yourself it wasn’t that serious. He wasn’t even talking to you. He was doing his own thing. Still, your gaze kept drifting. Just to see if he was still there. Still. Every time you checked, he was. Some minutes passed like that—just you pretending to be more chill than you felt while your friends chattered and moved toward the crowd. You stayed behind, needing a second to breathe. You slipped into the kitchen, mostly empty now, except for the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint bass vibrating through the floor. You reached for the fridge handle, intent on just grabbing some cold water and hiding out for a bit, but when you turned, he was already there. Standing just inside the doorway. Watching. Your breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned you slowly—top to bottom, unhurried. You felt it like a heatwave, settling low in your stomach. His gaze was darker than usual. Focused, sharp. You dropped your eyes immediately, trying not to fidget. Tugged lightly on the hem of your dress like it might help somehow, like maybe it covered more than it did. You felt your cheeks flush without him even having to speak. You weren’t even sure why you were so nervous. You’d seen him like this before, but something about tonight made it worse. Made you bite your lip without thinking. Made your cheeks burn just from the way he looked at you. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice calm and even. A little rough from the smoke, but still warm. You glanced up, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said, “Wasn’t really planning to, but… my friends dragged me.” He smiled a little. “I’m glad you came.” Your breath hitched. You weren’t expecting that. “You look good tonight.” It landed heavy in your chest. No teasing. No smirk. Just him saying it like it was a fact. Your whole body flushed. “Oh,” you said, voice small. “Um. Thanks.” He nodded once, eyes still on you, and then glanced back toward the hallway. “I’m heading up to the balcony for a bit. If you wanna get some air.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just gave you one last look—soft, lingering—and pushed off the doorframe to leave. “Come find me,” he said, and then he was gone. Leaving you standing in the kitchen, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth, wondering how the hell he always made you feel like this without even trying.

You lingered in the kitchen for a while after he left, pretending to scroll through your phone, half-listening to the party still pulsing through the walls. Your friends had fully disappeared into the crowd by now, probably dancing or taking shots or screaming over music. You told yourself you were just cooling off. Just getting a break from the noise. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at you. The way he said it—You look good tonight. Like it wasn’t up for debate. Like he meant it, and he knew you’d heard him loud and clear. Eventually, you texted some excuse about needing air, said you’d be right back if anyone even cared that you left. You slipped out of the kitchen and made your way upstairs, heartbeat loud in your ears, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot nervous. The hallway was quiet, just some closed doors and the muffled hum of bass below. You found the door to the balcony slightly cracked open, soft breeze pushing in from the night. You pushed it open gently. There he was. He sat on a low, beat-up couch tucked against the wall. One leg stretched out, the other bent, arm thrown over the backrest like he owned the space. Head tilted back just slightly, hoodie slipping off his shoulder, lips parted around the blunt as he took a slow drag. The ember glowed red in the dark, lighting up the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looked unfairly good. Like the air belonged to him. Like nothing touched him. He turned his head lazily when he heard the door, eyes finding yours through the smoke. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then took another slow hit, exhaling with a quiet sigh before speaking.

“Knew you’d come.” You swallowed hard, heart kicking up again like you hadn’t already spent the last fifteen minutes trying to calm it down. His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something behind it—something that made your chest tighten a little. You stepped out and quietly shut the door behind you. You sat down beside him, slow and careful, the cushion dipping under your weight. His knee brushed yours just slightly, warm through the fabric. You glanced over, then down again, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I just—I’d rather be up here with you than down there in all that chaos.” That got him to finally look at you. Head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed just a little like he was trying to read deeper than what you were saying out loud. He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ash from the blunt, leaned back again, eyes still on you. You breathed in through your nose, steadying yourself. Then softer, barely louder than the wind, you added, “I missed you.” He turned his head fully now, letting the blunt rest between his fingers. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Warm. His eyes softened just a bit. “Yeah?” he said, voice a little quieter than before. “I missed you too.” It landed in your chest like a weight—like the kind of thing you weren’t sure you were allowed to want, but did anyway. He leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but just enough for his knee to press softly into yours. His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You been thinking about me?” he asked, voice still calm, but something about it made your stomach twist. You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks again, and you had to look away. “…Maybe.” He smiled at that, small and crooked and unfairly attractive. “Same.” And then he took another hit like he hadn’t just wrecked you with a single word. He let the silence hang for a few seconds after that, the blunt burning slow between his fingers, and then he said it quietly, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Come closer.” Your eyes flicked to his, heart stuttering a little. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift or make room, just waited. You hesitated for a second and then moved, scooting over until your leg was pressed fully against his. He reached out casually, like it was second nature, and slid his arm around your shoulders. A soft tug, and suddenly you were leaning into him, your head falling against his chest like it belonged there. You could feel everything. His warmth, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek. His hoodie smelled like smoke and laundry and him. He brought the blunt to his lips again, took a hit, then lowered it and turned his head slightly toward you.“Want some?” he murmured. You shook your head, just once. “Not right now.” He hummed, didn’t push. Just let his hand stay where it was on your shoulder, thumb brushing idly against your arm. You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he. You both just sat there, pressed together on the old balcony couch, the party a muffled storm below you, the stars wide and scattered above. You listened to the wind. The soft scratch of fabric when he shifted. The occasional drag and exhale as he smoked. You closed your eyes for a second and just let yourself feel all of it.

He shifted a little, moving his hand lower on your arm, caressing the skin, his breath warm against your hair. You felt his heartbeat quicken just a bit beneath your cheek. The silence between you was thick. to be noticed. You glanced up at him, your eyes catching his in the dim light. There was something softer there now. Something unspoken, but heavy. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering near your temple. Your breath hitched. He leaned down just a little, voice low and casual, “You’re beautiful.” You swallowed, barely able to meet his gaze as your face flushed again. Then, just like that, he closed the tiny gap between you. His lips found yours slow and gentle, before deepening the kiss, like he’d been wanting to do this all night. You melted into him, your hand slowly reaching up to rest on his chest as the world around you faded. It’s not gentle anymore, it’s urgent, needy. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue slides against yours, deep and demanding. You whimper softly, the sound lost in the press of his mouth, your body melting into his. He pulls back just enough to whisper in your ear, voice husky, “Wanna get out of here? I’ve got my car nearby.” Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You just nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, breath catching again as he wraps his arm tighter around you.

He doesn’t rush you, just laces his fingers through yours, warm and firm, and gives your hand a gentle tug. You follow without thinking, legs shaky as you leave the balcony behind and slip back into the quiet hallway. The party feels distant now, like the world narrowed down to just him, the weight of his hand in yours, the aftertaste of his kiss still lingering on your lips. The walk to his car is quiet, but not awkward. When he unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat, you hesitate for half a second before slipping in beside him. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you both inside the low, warm hum of the vehicle. He leans back, legs stretched out, calm like always, but there’s a heat behind his eyes when he looks at you. A spark still flickering from earlier. “I’m gonna roll real quick,” he murmurs, pulling out his tray and grinder from the center console like it’s second nature. You nod, watching him work—his fingers nimble, methodical, the lighter’s flame briefly illuminating his face when he brings the blunt to his lips. The car fills with the earthy scent of smoke, and his head tilts back slightly as he exhales, half-lidded. He looks so fucking fine like this, bathed in shadows and smoke, hoodie loose around his collarbones, the faint red glow of the blunt lighting up his lips. Then he turns his head toward you again and you don’t even get the chance to fully catch your breath before he leans in again, free hand finding your cheek as he kisses you.

The smoke still lingers on his breath, and you melt into it, moaning softly into his mouth as his tongue slides against yours. His fingers are on your thigh, squeezing gently as he pulls you closer. The kiss turns messier, full of need, soft gasps and low groans echoing through the car. Your hand grips his hoodie low, holding on like you might fall apart if you let go. He pulls back only enough to whisper, breath ghosting over your lips, “Could do this all night.” Then his mouth is on yours again. More heat, more tongue, more breathless little noises spilling from your lips as your body starts to tremble in his hands. Without breaking the kiss, his hands move, one sliding up your thigh, the other settling on your waist. “C’mere,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low but soft. You barely register what he means until his hands are guiding you, pulling you gently, firmly, right onto his lap. One leg at a time, knees sinking into the seat on either side of him, hands braced on his shoulders, your dress hiking up as you settle onto him, straddling him, face to face. He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes hooded, red from the weed, blunt still between his fingers. One of his hands slides up your side, fingers grazing your waist and ribs over the thin fabric of your dress. He takes his time with it, like he’s learning your shape. Your breath stutters as his hand travels higher, stopping just under your arm. He brings the blunt to his lips again, takes a long, slow hit, his chest rising beneath you, and then leans in close. His free hand curves around the back of your neck, guiding your face closer to his. You part your lips on instinct, and he exhales the smoke right into your mouth, warm and slow, curling over your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe it in, heart thudding, and then he kisses you. Kisses you like he’s taking the air right back from your lungs.

Your breath catches when you feel his hands slide down, beneath the hem of your dress. He pushes it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your waist until the cool air hits your thighs. You shift slightly, nervous, thighs tightening around his hips as he exposes more of you. He doesn’t say anything, just stares for a second, eyes flicking down to where your panties are now visible, his palms firm on the back of your thighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, mouth finding your neck, and everything gets messier after that. He kisses down the side of your throat, open, warm, wet, his lips dragging along the skin, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch against him. You whimper quietly, trying to stay still, but he’s already pulling you closer with both hands, guiding your body into his like he knows exactly what you need. You tilt your head for him without thinking, shy sounds escaping your mouth as he works his way up to your jaw, then down again, kissing a little rougher now. “Weno…” you whisper, voice breaking around his name. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low against your skin. “You’re okay.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively, face burning as you shift in his lap, unintentionally grinding down just slightly. His reaction is immediate, a quiet groan right into your neck, his hands tightening on your hips. “Just like that,” he breathes.

Your hips grind down harder without thinking, breath coming out in shaky gasps as the friction starts to feel almost too good. His hands slip under the back of your dress, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass, guiding your movement like he needs it just as bad. You’re whimpering into the heated space between you, clinging to his hoodie, your body trembling slightly with every slow drag of your hips over his. Your panties are soaked. His pants are straining. The windows are fogging up, and the whole car smells like weed, sweat, and heat. He tilts his head, catching your mouth again in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, like he can’t stop tasting you. His hand slides up your waist, grazing under the curve of your chest over the thin fabric of your dress, and you shudder, moaning softly into his mouth. Then he pulls back, just a little, resting his forehead against yours as both of you try to breathe. “Fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling beneath you. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen and barely parted, still trying to catch your breath. He looks at you for a long second, hands still on your waist, grounding you. “I don’t wanna do this in the car,” he says, voice rough. “You deserve better than that.” Your breath hitches, heat flaring even higher at how serious he sounds. “Wanna go to my place?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your side. You nod slowly, shy but needy, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, a little scared to let go. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Okay.” He kisses you once more, soft and sweet, before pulling back just enough to reach for the keys.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing you into the warmth of his place. It was dark, mostly, just the glow of a streetlamp slipping through the blinds, casting faint lines across the floor. Neither of you spoke. You turned slightly, lips parting like you might say something, but he was already reaching for you. His hands found your waist in the dark, pulling you in with no hesitation, and his mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. Kissing you hungrily, deep and needy. Everything he hadn’t said tonight was pouring out of him all at once, into the way he held you, the way his lips moved over yours. His grip was firm, hands splayed over your hips, your back arching into him as you kissed him back just as desperately. He walked you backwards without breaking the kiss, slow, steady steps through the short hallway, lips never leaving yours. You barely registered the corners of the space or how you ended up where you did until the back of your knees hit something soft. And then he was lowering you onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, and your breath caught as he hovered above you, eyes dark and steady on yours. Then, without a word, he zipped down his hoodie and took it off. Now just in a white tank, it clung to his frame in all the right places, the cut of his collarbone visible, shoulders broad and sharp under the light. He looked down at you for a second longer, breathing hard, gaze lingering on your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Then he leaned down, kissing you again, less rushed, but just as intense. His hands slid up your sides, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of your dress, moving deliberately, memorizing the shape of you. You whimpered softly into his mouth, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. He pulled back for a second, eyes flicking between yours, voice low and wrecked. “You good?” he asked, forehead brushing yours. You nodded, cheeks burning, lips swollen already. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m good.”

He didn’t wait long after your answer. His mouth moved to your neck, warm and open, lips brushing your skin before he started kissing, slow, deliberate, dragging his tongue gently along the curve of your throat. You gasped, breath hitching as he sucked softly at a spot just below your jaw. Then again, a little lower. Your hips twitched beneath him when you felt his teeth graze you. “Weno—” you whispered, but it came out as more of a breath than a word. “You’re so pretty” he murmured, voice barely there, like he was talking to himself. “Always are.” His hand moved down slowly, slipping over your waist and along the outside of your thigh before sliding back up under the hem of your dress. His touch was patient, teasing, he didn’t rush. Just let his fingertips brush along the top of your thigh, higher and higher until they were tracing the edge of your panties. He pushed the fabric of your underwear to the side, slowly, and let his fingers slide between your folds, touching your bare heat. You gasped, head tilting back into the pillow, lips parting in a silent moan. “Shit,” he whispered, breath warm against your collarbone. “So soaked f’me, baby.” Your cheeks burned, thighs tensing slightly around his hand. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your chest, tongue wet and warm as his fingers began to move—slow circles at first, barely-there pressure that made you squirm beneath him. His free hand gripped your waist, holding you steady like he could feel how close you already were, how much you wanted him. “You’re so sensitive,” he muttered, voice deep and low, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed up to your ear.

You whimpered his name, hips grinding into his hand without meaning to. His fingers never stopped moving, dragging slick circles against your clit as he kept his mouth on your neck. Every kiss felt more urgent, but not rushed. It wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something heavier. And then he leaned up, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think about you all the time,” he murmured, breath warm, fingers still teasing between your thighs. “Even when I’m not supposed to. Even when I try not to.” Your heart flipped, aching at how raw it sounded coming from him. “I don’t even think you know what you do to me,” he continued, a soft kiss behind your ear. “How long I’ve wanted you like this. Letting me touch you.” The words hit harder than anything else had—deeper than the kisses, deeper than his touch. Your chest tightened, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slid into his hair, pulling him down until your lips met again. Your moans melted into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips rolled up into his hand. His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

And then, without warning, he shifted his hand lower, deeper. Your lips parted in a quiet gasp as he slid one finger inside you, slow and careful. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, already aching from how worked up you were, how long he’d been teasing. He didn’t wait long before easing in a second finger, stretching you just a little more. His movements were smooth, curling them up inside you just right, drawing out whiny, breathless little sounds from your throat you couldn’t hold back. You buried your face in his shoulder, hands gripping his bicep, your hips rocking involuntarily into every slow thrust of his fingers. He moved deep and steady, his palm pressing into you, thumb dragging lazy circles over your clit in rhythm. He kept moving inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. You were so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your stomach, breath catching with every stroke. But just as your legs began to shake, just as your hips bucked up into his hand with a quiet, desperate moan—he pulled out. You whined at the loss, hips stuttering forward instinctively, chasing the friction. “Weno…” “I know,” he murmured, breathless himself, voice thick with need. “I know, baby.” He leaned back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere to the side. The soft light coming through the cracked door hit his chest just right—shoulders broad, abs toned, skin flushed and warm. His chain shifted against his skin when he moved.

Then he was reaching for you again, hands gentle. “Can I?” he asked, fingers brushing the hem of your dress. You nodded, cheeks hot, eyes wide and dazed. “Y-Yeah” He pulled it up slowly, lifting it over your head. His eyes dropped to your body as it was revealed to him—bare chest, soft skin, rising and falling with every shaky breath. He leaned his mouth to your nipple, giving it a soft suck while sliding your panties down your legs, dragging his hands along your thighs as he did. Then he moved lower. He settled between your legs like he belonged there, hands spreading your thighs gently, thumbs brushing along the inside. You whimpered, body already arching at the sight of him down there, the feel of his breath ghosting over your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, eyes locked on your soaked center. And then he leaned in. His tongue was warm, slow, one long, deliberate lick up your folds that made your back arch off the bed. Then again, this time with more pressure, more intent. His mouth locked over your clit, sucking softly before he flattened his tongue and circled it. You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling as your thighs tried to close around his head. He just groaned into you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer, keeping you wide open for him. The sounds—wet, messy, sinful—filled the room along with your breathy moans, soft whimpers, the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved with purpose, lapping, circling, flicking. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but moan, soft and desperate, your hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. And then you felt his hand again. Sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing through your slick folds before one dipped inside you, curling instantly. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry. He added a second immediately, stretching you and pumping into you while his mouth never left your clit. “Weno—fuck,” you whimpered, body jolting as he curled his fingers just right. Your walls clenched around him, needy and tight. His groan vibrated through you when he felt it. His tongue pressed harder, fingers pumping deep and slow—each drag of his knuckles making your toes curl. Your moans got higher, breathier, as your body trembled under his touch. “You close, baby?” he muttered against your clit, fingers never slowing. “Wanna feel you cum on my fuckin’ fingers.” You nodded, frantic, too far gone to speak. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he held you open, ruined you with his mouth, pushed his fingers deep inside you until the heat building in your stomach finally snapped. You came hard, legs trembling, hips stuttering, a loud moan spilling from your lips as everything clenched and pulsed around him. Fingers still working you gently through it while his tongue slowed, easing the intensity but never leaving you empty. Weno pressed one last kiss to your thigh, lips lingering as he pulled his fingers from you slowly, savoring the way your body jolted at the loss. He sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling a little faster now, eyes heavy as they dragged up your body.

You watched, dazed, flushed, and breathless as he reached for the waistband of his cargos, unbuttoning and sliding them down. They hit the floor with a quiet thud, leaving him in just his boxers—black, stretched tight over the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. He palmed it slowly, eyes still fixed on you, thumb pressing down over the thick outline like it ached. You squirmed beneath him, breath catching again when he leaned forward, caging you in with his arms. He kissed you slow and deep, tongue sliding over yours, moaning into your mouth. Then he reached between you and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hissing softly when his length sprang free and brushed against your thigh. “You still good?” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his thumb caressing your cheek. You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah… I want you.” That was all he needed. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, dragging the tip through your slick folds, teasing you both with the heat of it. His hand found your waist again, grounding you as he pushed in slowly—inch by inch, thick and hot and stretching you just right. You gasped, nails digging into his biceps, body arching as he filled you completely.“Fuck,” he breathed out against your mouth, kissing you again as he bottomed out. “So tight. So good.” He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried deep, letting you adjust while he pressed soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your lips. His hands smoothed over your sides, grounding you. And then he started to move.

He started slow and deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every inch of him along your walls. Your body clung to him, welcoming each stroke like it had been waiting, aching, for this exact moment. His hands moved down your sides, palms warm and firm, before sliding under your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist. The new angle made you gasp, your head falling back into the pillow as he sank even deeper. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice all breath and gravel, “So fucking perfect like this.” You whimpered, lips parting with every slow rock of his hips, every soft press of his chest to yours. One of his hands slipped under your back, pulling you closer, the other traveling to cup your breast, squeezing gently, thumb circling your nipple. “Love your body,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every inch. All mine now, yeah?” You could only nod, breath shaky, heart pounding. He moved again—long, deep thrusts that made your thighs tremble around him, that had you clinging tighter to his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in his touch. “So fuckin’ good,” he groaned, kissing your neck, “Fuck—look at how you take me.” He slid his hand down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you up into each thrust, letting you feel just how hard he was holding back. You cried out softly, tears blurring your vision as the heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. You felt stretched, full…loved. Every part of him was on you, in you, his lips, his hands, his voice. He slowed for just a second, chest heaving as he looked down at you.

His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lip as he whispered, “No one’s ever made me feel like this.” You blinked, another tear slipping free. He caught it with a kiss. He pushed in deep again, groaning low as your body clenched around him. Your eyes fluttered shut as your lips parted in a sob, overwhelmed. The pleasure, the emotion—it was too much, and not enough. You gasped out his name, voice broken, tears spilling freely now. “You’re doin’ so good,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So good for me. You feel so fuckin’ good—can’t get enough of you, baby.” He cupped your breast again, his other hand squeezing your ass as he rocked deeper, firmer, filling you completely with every thrust. The mattress creaked beneath you, skin slapping, breathy moans and whimpers. He lift your legs higher, folding them up toward your chest as his hands slid beneath your knees, guiding you open. His body shifted with yours, hovering close, his chest pressing to yours as he settled into the new position. You were utterly vulnerable, and so full. “Fuck,” he breathed as he pushed back in—deeper, impossibly deep, the new angle hitting something inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. Your thighs trembled against his sides, your arms wrapping tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you again, slow and hard. His face was right above yours, eyes dark, mouth parted, breath hot on your cheek. His forehead pressed to yours. You pulled him down, fingers tangling in his hair, and kissed him hard, messy, open-mouthed, desperate. You sobbed into the kiss, the pleasure blurring everything, making your whole body feel like it was about to break apart in the best way.

He moaned against your mouth, thrusts picking up just slightly, deeper and deeper, hips pressing you into the mattress. One of his hands cradled your cheek as the other gripped under your thigh, holding you open for him while his body kept driving into yours, filling you perfectly. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, kissing along your jaw between gasps. “So good for me, baby… fuck.” Your body clenched tight around him, your moans turning into cries as your nails dug into his back. “Weno— I’m close, I—please,” you gasped, barely able to form the words through the sobs that kept catching in your throat. “I got you,” he panted, hips grinding down, pace relentless now. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you.” It only took another stroke. One more hit just right, and you shattered. Your second orgasm came, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, tears slipping down your cheeks as you sobbed his name, legs shaking violently around him. You clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. “Shit—baby—fuck—” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your body pulsed around him. “So good. So fucking good.” He barely lasted another few thrusts before he was pulling out quickly, stroking himself through the last moments, his body jerking forward with a final moan as he spilled across your stomach, thick and warm. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, forehead to yours again, breath ragged, lips ghosting yours.

He was still above you, body trembling slightly as he caught his breath, his lips brushing yours in soft, lingering kisses that felt more like confessions than touches. You were trying to breathe too, heart racing, chest rising and falling as your mind spun. Every nerve in your body was still alive, aching with how full he made you feel—physically, emotionally, all of it. And yet, even in the quiet after, something heavy sat in your chest. You swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting at his sides, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. You could feel it pressing against your tongue—those words—so big and so terrifying, but so real. Too real to keep inside. “Weno…?” you whispered, voice barely audible. He blinked down at you, soft and hazy from the afterglow. “Yeah, baby?” Your lip trembled as you looked up at him, wide-eyed and afraid. “I… I think I’m in love with you.” The second the words left your mouth, your stomach dropped. You felt exposed, like you’d stripped yourself bare in a whole new way. Your eyes filled with panic—what if he didn’t feel the same? What if this ruined everything? “I—I’m sorry,” you added quickly, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to ruin it, I just—fuck, I don’t know, I just feel so much and I couldn’t keep it in and—” He cut you off with a kiss. Not a soft one, not a careful one, but deep, sure. His hand cupped your face as he leaned into you, kissing you like he needed to feel every word you’d just said on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the little tear that had escaped down your cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispered. “You could never ruin anything.” Your heart fluttered painfully. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Since before I even knew what to call it. You don’t scare me, baby. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.” He kissed you again, tender. His hands wrapped around you, pulling you close until your body was pressed to his, skin to skin, and you could barely breathe from how tight he held you. You buried your face in his neck, arms tucked between your chests, your heart pounding against his. The silence that followed was heavy with warmth—safe, soft. Eventually, he shifted just enough to reach for the blunt on his nightstand, lighting it with a quiet flick of his lighter. The glow lit up his face in soft orange as he took a long drag, exhaling with a sigh, head tilted back slightly. You curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, ear catching the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His arm came around you instinctively, holding you tighter, and his hand drifted lazily into your hair, fingers combing through the strands. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. He held you like he was never letting go.

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