The autumn air bit sharp against Minho's cheeks as he kicked his board down the cracked concrete steps behind the abandoned rec center, the scrape of trucks echoing off brick walls while his friends traded cigarettes and laughed about weekend plans. He wasn't one of the golden boys of the school—too much eyeliner, too many holes in his thrifted sweaters, too many afternoons spent perfecting choreography in dusty studios rather than networking at pep rallies—but he knew the way certain eyes followed him when he moved, all liquid grace and jagged edges. His new Twitter account sat anonymous and hungry in his pocket, a burner identity he'd crafted after the third cheerleader that week had sent unsolicited photos to his main, not understanding that the pretty boy with the grunge aesthetic didn't want their soft curves or whispered promises.

Across the social hierarchy, Jisung existed in a bubble of meticulously curated popularity, his wardrobe a shrine to Y2K resurrection—low-rise jeans, butterfly clips, baby tees that showed slivers of honeyed skin, everything oversized and glittering and aggressively nostalgic. He sat at the right lunch tables and laughed at the right jokes, but his real existence pulsed behind a locked account where he was someone else entirely. There, in the blue glow of 3 AM, he posed in pleated skirts that rode high on his thighs, plugged and pretty, capturing the curve of his own ass in mirrors with the flash on, typing confessions about wanting to be ruined, about the ache that never went away, about the dildo he kept hidden in a shoebox beneath vintage platform sneakers. He'd blocked every mutual, every classmate, every possible connection to his daylight life, certain the wall between his personas was impenetrable.

Minho found him on a Tuesday when the rain kept him inside and his hand kept wandering south, scrolling through hashtags that led him down rabbit holes of femininity and submission until he froze, thumb hovering over a photo that made his breath catch. The caption read something about being desperate, but Minho's eyes were locked on the visual: the school president—*that* Han Jisung, smirking golden boy of the morning announcements—bent over a dorm bed with his skirt flipped up, ass impossibly round and plush, gripping a silicon toy that disappeared inside him with obscene perfection. The contradiction was violent and erotic: the same mouth that delivered polite speeches about school spirit was the mouth gasping open in the photo, the same hands that organized charity drives were spreading himself apart.

He didn't DM. Didn't like. Didn't follow with his main. But he saved the photo, and the next one, and the ones after that—Jisung's secret archive becoming Minho's religion, a daily communion of friction and fantasy. Every morning he woke up hard thinking about that plush curve, that hidden hunger, the way Jisung's online persona begged for things that would shatter his daylight reputation. Minho would grip himself with one hand while scrolling through Jisung's confessions with the other, imagining the sounds the smaller boy would make, how those Y2K outfits would look torn and disheveled, how it would feel to replace silicone with something hot and living.

The skate park became a theater of torture after that—Minho watching Jisung glide through the halls in his vintage tracksuits and tiny sunglasses, knowing what lay beneath, knowing the pink plug that sometimes showed faintly through tight pants in photos was probably sitting warm inside him right now during third period. He'd go home with his jeans uncomfortably tight and ruin himself to the image of that bent-over pose, the school president's most vulnerable moment captured in pixels, Minho's always sharp and guilty and furious, directed at a boy who didn't know he was being worshipped. The secret sat heavy and delicious in Minho's gut: that he alone had seen past the performance, that he jerked off not to the girls who threw themselves at his grunge aesthetic, but to the hidden who wore skirts and took it deep, who existed only in the dark, waiting for someone to find him.

Scenario One: The Discovery

My thumb burns against the screen at 2 AM, the blue light cutting harsh across my dark room while Nirvana plays too quiet through my headphones. I was supposed to be looking for new skate clips, something to show the guys tomorrow, but my search history has devolved into something hungrier—thighs in skirts, pretty boys bent over, the kind of content that makes my ache behind my ripped jeans. Then I freeze. Scroll back up. My breath catches so hard my chest hurts.

It's him. Fucking Han Jisung, student council president, the golden boy who handed out participation ribbons at the pep rally this morning. He's on his knees on what looks like a dorm bed, his face pressed into a pillow but turned just enough that I can see his profile—that sharp jawline I know from the cafeteria, now slack with pleasure. His ass is bare, round and plush and impossibly soft-looking, and there's a toy inside him, pink and obscene, stretching him open while he grips the sheets with manicured nails.

I unzip my jeans without thinking, the grind of metal loud in the quiet room. My springs free, heavy and leaking already, and I spit into my palm before I even close the bathroom door. The image is burned into my retinas—Jisung's secret, his filthy little secret that he thinks he's hidden behind blocks and anonymity. I stroke myself rough and fast, imagining how he'd feel around me instead of that silicone, how those pretty sounds he's probably making in the photo would turn into screams if I had him like that. I come hard, biting my lip to stay quiet, painting the tiles while staring at his exposed hole, knowing I'll never look at him the same way again.

Scenario Two: The Hallway

The fluorescent lights in the English wing hum that shitty, dying-bug sound as I lean against my locker, board tucked under one arm, eyeliner probably smudged from last night. I look like shit—intentionally, always intentionally—and then I see him coming down the hall. Jisung. He's wearing those low-rise cargos that sit dangerously on his hips, a baby tee that shows a sliver of stomach, butterfly clips holding back his bangs. Everyone waves at him. Everyone loves him.

But I know. , I know.

My jeans get tight immediately, remembering last night—him in a pleated skirt, plugged and presenting, his fingers spreading himself apart for the camera. I watch him walk, that slight sway in his hips that I've never noticed before, and now I can't unsee it. Is he wearing it right now? Is there something silicone and thick keeping him full while he smiles at the principal, while he accepts his perfect attendance certificate?

I duck into the bathroom, heart hammering against my ribs, and lock the stall. My hands shake as I pull up his locked account—I've memorized the handle, check it like a sickness—and there's a new post from twenty minutes ago. "So full during calc, can barely focus." My vision narrows. I spit in my hand and work myself fast and brutal, imagining him squirming in his seat three floors up, clenching around whatever he's got inside him, being a good boy for the camera while his face stays angelic for the teacher. I come with my forehead pressed against the cool metal of the stall door, picturing his plush ass bouncing on my lap instead of that classroom chair, his Y2K outfit rumpled and ruined.

Scenario Three: The Almost

The basement party is all wrong—too loud, too many people from school, the air thick with weed smoke and cheap perfume. I didn't want to come, but Changbin dragged me, and now I'm trapped in a corner with a warm beer, watching Jisung across the room. He's dancing, hips moving in that way that started as ironic Y2K revival and became something genuinely hypnotic. His crop top rides up when he raises his arms, showing the smooth plane of his stomach, and I know—*I know*—what that skin looks like flushed pink, marked with teeth, stretched tight over a plug.

He catches me staring. Our eyes lock across the dim room, and my heart stops. For a second, something flickers in his expression—panic? Recognition? He knows I don't follow his main. He knows I've never spoken to him. But does he know I know? Does he see it on my face, the hunger, the fact that I've memorized every mole on his inner thighs?

I push off the wall and move toward him before I can stop myself, the crowd parting around my grunge silhouette—combat boots, ripped fishnets, oversized flannel. He freezes as I approach, his friend saying something he doesn't hear. I lean in close, close enough to smell his vanilla perfume, close enough to see the flutter of his pulse in his neck.

"Nice skirt," I murmur, voice rough from disuse, and his eyes go wide, terrified, thrilled. "Pink looks good on you."

I walk away before he can respond, leaving him standing there with his mouth open, and I don't look back. But I know—*I know*—he'll be checking his blocked list tonight, wondering, panicking. And I'll be at home, in hand, waiting to see if he posts something new, something desperate, something meant for me to find.