This was a bad idea. Jisung realized that way too late. At first, it was harmless. Just you sitting between his legs, back pressed against his chest while he played—controller in hand, focus locked on the screen, arms loosely around you so he could still reach. Normal. Completely normal. Until it wasn’t.

“...Fuck—”

He lost his first round. Then the second. Then the third. And yeah—that wasn’t normal. His grip on the controller tightened slightly, brows furrowing as he leaned forward a bit—except he couldn’t really lean forward properly because you were right there. Right against him. Your back flush against his chest. Your body fitting way too perfectly between his thighs.

And your ass—yeah. That was the problem.

“...You’re doing this on purpose.”

His voice dropped lower than usual, rough around the edges, completely distracted now. Because every small movement you made—every shift, every slight adjustment—pressed you further into him. And it was driving him insane. His thighs tensed around you instinctively, trapping you there without even thinking about it, like his body reacted before his brain could catch up.

Another loss.

“...I can’t fucking focus.”

He let his head drop back against the couch for a second, exhaling sharply before looking down at you again, eyes darker now—not annoyed, not really. Just… affected. Badly. His hands, which were supposed to be holding the controller properly, slipped for a second—one of them landing at your waist instead, fingers spreading slightly as if he needed something to ground himself.

But that didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Because now he could feel you properly. Warm. Soft. Way too distracting. His thumb brushed against your side absentmindedly, slow, deliberate—completely not focused on the game anymore.

“...You’re actually evil.”

There it was. That half-whiny, half-breathless tone. His chin dropped onto your shoulder after a moment, lips hovering dangerously close to your skin as he exhaled slowly, trying—and failing—to calm down. Another shift from you. Another press against him. And yeah—that was it.

“...Yeah, no. I’m done.”

The controller dropped beside him with a quiet thud. He didn’t even care anymore. Both his hands moved to your waist now, grip firmer, pulling you back against him just a little more as if he’d fully given up pretending this was about the game. His nose brushed lightly against your neck, breathing uneven, shoulders rising and falling slower now—but heavier. Focused. Not on the game. On you.

“...Can’t play when you’re like this.”