The fluorescent lights of the classroom hummed overhead, a sound you were still getting used to. It was so different from your school in Seoul. You kept your eyes downcast, your black hair acting as a curtain between you and the curious, overwhelming stares of the American students. You could feel their eyes on you, hear their whispered, excited chatter. You just wished the teacher would finish introducing you so you could find a seat and disappear.

From his desk near the back, Kevin watched. To you, he was a whirlwind of sharp edges and dark ink, a sculpture of muscle barely contained in a tight white t-shirt. Silver gleamed from his eyebrow, his lip, his ears. He leaned over to his friend, a smirk playing on his pierced lips.

"Would you look at that. Thought we got a new pretty little thing to play with. Sounds like a fucking angel. Look how shy it is."

His eyes tracked your every nervous fidget. Then the teacher said your name and used

"he."

Kevin's smirk didn't fade; it just sharpened, turning predatory. A challenge. A guy. Even better.

"Move,"

he muttered, shoving his best friend out of the desk next to his.

"New kid's sitting here."

It wasn't a request. When you finally dared to look up, the teacher was gesturing to the empty seat. You had no choice but to walk down the aisle, your heart hammering against your ribs, and slip into the chair next to him. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his clean, sharp cologne mixed with the scent of the gym. You didn't look at him. You didn't dare.

A week later, the project pairing felt like fate to Kevin; to you, it felt like a terrifying sentence. Your English was broken, a handful of scattered words, and he spoke a mile a minute, a torrent of slang and curses you couldn't hope to follow.

"My house. After school. Don't be late,"

he'd said, and that was that.

Now you were there, in his bedroom. It was exactly as you’d imagine: weights in the corner, band posters on the wall, a faint smell of sweat and clean laundry. His parents were a distant murmur downstairs. You were sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed, textbook open on your lap, pointing nervously at a diagram.

Kevin wasn't looking at the book. He was looking at you. At the way your too-big sweater slipped off your shoulder. At the delicate line of your jaw. He cursed under his breath, a low, gruff

"Fuck."

You flinched at the sound, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes.

"S-sorry?"

"It's fucking unfair,"

he growled, moving from his chair to sit on the bed beside you. His voice was low, intense. You couldn't understand the words, but you understood the tone. Your breath hitched.

"Look at you. Those fucking eyes. That mouth. Are you for real?"

He reached out, and you froze as his calloused fingers pushed your hair back from your face. You trembled under his touch, a trapped bird. He saw the fear, and it only excited him more.

"Shhh, relax. I'm not gonna hurt you... much."

One thing led to another. His touch, at first just on your face, became more. A hand on your waist. Then his body was crowding you, pushing you down onto the mattress until you were on your stomach, your face pressed into his comforter. You whimpered, a small, scared sound, and tried to squirm away, but he was so much stronger. His weight settled on top of you, solid and immovable, a mountain of muscle and intent.

"Stay still,"

he commanded, his voice a hot whisper against your ear as he pinned your wrists above your head with one large hand. With the other, he yanked your jeans and underwear down to your thighs. The cool air hit your skin, and you gasped, a sob catching in your throat.

"Fuck, look at you,"

he breathed, his eyes raking over the exposed skin of your back and the pale, perfect curves of your ass. He ran a rough hand over one cheek, squeezing, and you jerked.

"So fucking perfect. So soft. It ain't right for a guy to be like this."

You heard the click of a cap, then the slick sound of lotion. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears leaking into the comforter. You knew what was coming, a vague, terrifying notion. His fingers, slick and cool, probed at your entrance, and you cried out, trying to clench shut.

"Gotta open you up, baby,"

he muttered, though the words were lost on you. All you knew was the slow, insistent pressure, the dizzying stretch as one finger, then a second, worked inside you. It burned, a sharp, alien feeling, but he was patient in his own rough way, scissoring and stretching you until your body, against its will, began to relax around the intrusion.

"There you go,"

he grunted, crooking his fingers and making you jolt.

"Take it. Gotta get you ready for me."

When he deemed you ready, he shifted above you. You heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his own jeans being shoved down. Then you felt it: the blunt, thick, terrifying head of his cock pressing against you. It was so much bigger than his fingers. You shook your head wildly, begging in broken Korean,

"Ani… ani, juseyo… (No… no, please…)"

He didn't understand, and he didn't care.

"Goddamn, you're tight,"

he groaned, and with one brutal, relentless thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.

A white-hot scream was torn from your throat, muffled by the bed. The pain was immense, a searing tear that felt like it split you in two. Your whole body went rigid, nails digging into his palms.

"Fuck! Holy shit!"

Kevin roared, his head thrown back. He stayed buried to the hilt, his own body trembling with the effort of holding still. The piercing—the Prince Albert—added a unique, intense pressure deep inside you, a constant, unforgiving presence against your most sensitive spots.

"Fucking like a virgin... shit..."

He gave you no time to adjust. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a punishing, rhythmic pace. The initial sharp pain began to subside into a deep, throbbing ache, punctuated by jolts of something else—a shocking, shameful pleasure every time that piercing dragged across a particular place inside you. Your own cock, trapped beneath you, was hard and leaking onto the sheets.

His body was a masterpiece of carved muscle, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. Every thrust made the intricate tattoos on his arms, back, and shoulders ripple and flex. He was a god of flesh and ink, using your smaller, slighter body for his pleasure. Your own form was pale and smooth in contrast, trembling violently beneath his, looking every bit the innocent he was so violently claiming.

"Yeah, take it, you fucking beautiful tease,"

he grunted, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic. One hand let go of your wrists to wrap in your hair, yanking your head back to arch your spine.

"Make fucking sounds like that... fuck..."

He was lost in it, in the tight, hot clutch of your body, in the taboo of it all.

"Not gay... fuck no... just you... it's just you, goddammit..."

His thrusts became erratic, losing all rhythm as he chased his peak. He was cursing, a continuous stream of

"fuck"

and

"shit"

and

"oh god,"

his voice guttural and raw. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that pressed the metal ball of his piercing right into your core, he came, roaring your name as he emptied himself inside you in hot, pulsing jets.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight driving you into the mattress, both of you gasping and slick with sweat. He stayed there for a long moment, buried inside you, before finally pulling out with a soft, wet sound. He rolled off you, lying on his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

You didn't move. You lay there, facedown, his release already starting to leak out of you, a painful, sticky warmth between your thighs. The room was silent except for your ragged, hitched breathing and the heavy pounding of your heart. You could still feel the ghost of him inside you, the ache, the stretch, the shocking memory of that piercing. You had been thoroughly, brutally taken, and nothing would ever be the same.