Chapter Text
American campus life didn’t bother pretending anymore.
Everyone knew what it was: frat houses packed shoulder to shoulder, music loud enough to bleed through walls, bodies pressed together in kitchens and hallways, people fucking first and learning names later—if they bothered at all. Parties were where everything happened. You went, you drank, you made out with someone you’d met ten minutes ago. Sometimes numbers were exchanged. Sometimes you never saw each other again. Sometimes a hookup quietly turned into a routine, then into something resembling a relationship.
Most of the time, it didn’t.
Minho knew the system. He’d participated in it long enough to understand the rules, even if he didn’t particularly like how often they failed him.
He moved through parties easily when he bothered to show up—drink in hand, posture relaxed, expression unreadable in a way people liked to project onto. Attention followed him without effort. People always decided things about him before he even opened his mouth.
They assumed he was a top.
They assumed he liked control.
They assumed he was there for something quick and disposable.
They were always wrong.
Minho corrected them. Every time. Calmly, bluntly, without embarrassment or apology. He was a bottom. He liked being one. If that disappointed someone, that was their problem, not his. Watching interest flicker, adjust, or vanish entirely had become a familiar part of the process.
What surprised people more was that he wasn’t looking for a one-off.
Not desperately.
Not pathetically.
Just… ideally.
Hookups were supposed to be the starting point, or at least that was how everyone talked about them. You met someone at a party, you fucked, you exchanged numbers if it was good.
Simple.
Efficient.
Minho had followed that script plenty of times. He just kept running into the same issue once things got to the bedroom.
He liked getting fucked. He liked it a lot. He liked giving himself over, liked how fast his body responded when someone actually paid attention. He was sensitive—ridiculously so—and once he tipped over the edge, it was easy to keep him there, open and shaking, ready for more.
That was where everything fell apart.
Most guys treated sex like something to finish instead of something to stay in. They rushed toward release like it was the only point, and the second they got there, they were done. Proud. Spent. Completely uninterested in the fact that Minho was very obviously not.
He didn’t need endless buildup or careful encouragement. His body was eager, responsive, greedy. He came easily—and if someone had even a little stamina, he could come again. And again. That was the appeal. That was the invitation.
Instead, he kept ending up under men who talked a good game and lasted none of it.
Five minutes.
Three, if Minho was particularly unlucky.
He’d stared at too many ceilings afterward, irritation settling heavy in his chest, listening to someone breathe beside him like they’d just achieved something impressive. They always seemed satisfied. Minho almost never was.
He wasn’t asking for miracles. He wasn’t demanding porn-star endurance or fairytale romance. He just wanted someone who didn’t fold the moment Minho reacted, someone who understood that sensitivity wasn’t a finish line. Someone who could fuck him like they actually wanted to be there for more than one round—and maybe, if it went well, more than one night.
That was why he preferred boyfriends. Or at least guys who were open to the idea of sticking around. Because the odds of decent sex went up dramatically when someone wasn’t treating his body like a one-time challenge. Because repeat encounters meant learning curves, not constant disappointment.
His size had never bothered him. He didn’t want to top, didn’t want to perform dominance just to fit someone else’s fantasy. He liked the contrast: the confidence, the sharp eyes, the way people assumed control—and the moment they realized he was happiest giving it up.
Minho liked himself. He liked how he looked, how he moved, how easily people wanted him. What he didn’t like was wasting time on men who barely lasted long enough to register that he wanted more.
That was why he hadn’t been to a party in almost a month.
Outside his dorm, one was already starting. Music thudded through the walls, laughter spilling into the hallway, someone shouting drunkenly as they stumbled past. Minho lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening.
There had to be someone on this campus who could keep up with him. Someone who didn’t treat his sensitivity like an endpoint. Someone who could fuck him past the first edge and still want more.
Minho didn’t know it yet, but the name was already circulating—passed between people with disbelief and grins, attached to a reputation that sounded exaggerated enough to be a joke.