the plug
[ K. Yeosang ]
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summary: in which the plug across the hall is exactly what you need
warning: use of weed, dry humping
genre: smut, fluff
pairing: plug yeosang x gender neutral reader
word count: 6.9k
masterlist
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Chicago had a way of chewing people up and spitting them back out looking a little more tired each day, and tonight, you felt like the city had gnawed straight through you. Your office badge was still clipped crooked to your blazer, your shoulders sore from eight hours of filing forms your dad swore would “build character,” and your brain half melted from listening to Mr. Henderson mispronounce your name every single day since you started. By the time you reached your apartment floor, the hallway’s flickering light felt like a personal attack as you muttered a curse under your breath and shifted your bag higher on your shoulder just in time to notice movement across the hall.
Yeosang’s door was cracked open, the faint curl of smoke slipping out like it was bored of being kept inside. His voice drifted out next, low and unhurried, the kind of voice that always sounded like it belonged at 2 am no matter what time it actually was. “yeah…. same price next week. Text before you come.” The guy he was talking to, a wiry kid in an oversized Bulls jacket, nodded fast, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was afraid to touch anything in Yeosang’s place.
Yeosang walked him out, one hand lazily braced on the doorframe, blonde hair messy like he’d run his fingers through it more than once during the evening. A deal. Obviously. Not that you were surprised. In this building, the walls carried information better than the mail service ever did. You weren’t trying to stare… but Yeosang had that effect. Calm. Too pretty for the kind of trouble he sold. And just as the customer darted past you toward the elevator, his eyes lifted. “Hey,” he said, that soft curl at the corner of his mouth growing the second he really took you in. “Rough day?”
Your key dangled uselessly in your fingers. “How’d you guess?” His gaze skimmed over your rumpled blazer, your dead eyed office stare, the hand still gripping your bag like it had personally offended you. “You look like you need a nap… or a drink,” he said, stepping fully into the doorway now. “Maybe both.” Behind you, your best friend Hongjoong must’ve heard voices, because your apartment door cracked open just long enough for him to peek out, clock Yeosang, and silently vanish back inside without a word. The hallway suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Buzzing with an energy that had nothing to do with the dying overhead light.
Yeosang tilted his head, hair falling into his eyes. “You eating dinner? Or did Mr. Henderson keep you chained to that desk again?” A quiet laugh slipped out of you. “Feels like it.” And because he always did this, always, he stepped just a little closer, enough that you could smell his cologne, subtle and smoky, woven with something earthy. Enough that your pulse gave itself away.
“Mm,” he hummed, brows lifting. “Welcome home then.” He said it like it meant something. Like you hadn’t been thinking about him since Thursday.
Like your dad wouldn’t throw a fit if he knew you were talking to him.bLike he knew exactly what he did to you. Before he could say anything else, he shifted back toward his doorway, but not before giving you one last slow sweep of his glance, head to toe, toe to head, old as sin and twice as tempting. “You need anything,” he added, voice softer now, almost private. “Just knock.” And with that, the door clicked shut.
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Your apartment always smelled faintly like fabric dye, incense, and whatever creative chaos Hongjoong had gotten himself into that day. Tonight it hit you the moment you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, an attempt at being quiet that fooled absolutely no one. Hongjoong was perched on the couch, knees tucked up, sketchbook open on his lap and pencil balanced behind his ear. He didn’t even pretend to be subtle about pausing mid sketch to stare at you. “You dumped Trevor two weeks ago,” he said in that tone he reserved specifically for when he was ready to be annoying. “And you still haven’t given in yet.”
Your bag hit the floor with a thud. “Oh my god, I just walked in.”
“Mhm.” He flipped a page in his sketchbook, not looking down once. “And you’re glowing.”
“I am not.”
“You are. You walked in here looking like someone smiled at you in a way that should be illegal.”
Heat crept traitorously up your neck. “It was just Yeosang.”
“Exactly.” Hongjoong closed his sketchbook with a soft thwap, turning fully toward you. His grin was devious, warm, and irritatingly accurate. “You want him. You’ve wanted him since the day we moved in.” You groaned and dragged a hand over your face. “I’m not talking about this.”
“Oh, you are,” he said, standing and crossing his arms like a tiny, fashionable interrogator. “Because you are free, single, hot, and living across the hall from a fae looking stoner prince and questionable employment choices. And you have not made a move.”
“I’m not making a move on the guy my dad would immediately arrest.”
Hongjoong scoffed. “Your dad would arrest the sun if it looked at you wrong. That’s not a real reason.”
“He deals…”
“He draws. He listens to dubstep. He helps Mrs. Rivera bring her groceries upstairs. And he always, always looks at you like you’re about to ruin his life in the best possible way.”
Your stomach dipped. Because that wasn’t untrue. “And,” Hongjoong added, waving his pencil like a wand, “you keep pretending you two don’t flirt every single time you see each other.”
“We don’t flirt,” you muttered weakly and he gave you a look that said you were absolutely delusional. “Sweetheart. He smiles at you like that. Every time. Meanwhile, he barely remembers my name.”
“That’s because you called him Yolanda for the first month.”
Hongjoong waved that away. “Irrelevant. What matters is you’re into him, he’s into you, and now that Trevor the Cheater is gone? You have no reason not to go for it.” You exhaled, long and slow, collapsing onto the couch beside him. “I’m not… scared,” you said quietly. “Just… cautious.”
“Yeah,” he said, nudging your shoulder affectionately. “But sometimes the fun stuff lives exactly where your caution stops.” You shot him a look and he grinned like a gremlin who’d just won an argument he absolutely planned to revisit later. “You want Yeosang,” he said again, softer now. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t.”
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Chicago nights had their own rhythm, sirens somewhere in the distance, trains humming through the dark, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar on the corner. By the time midnight rolled around, your apartment had settled into a sleepy hush. Hongjoong was knocked out cold on the couch, limbs tangled in a blanket he definitely stole from your room, sketchbook open on his chest like a shield. Poor guy never made it to bed when he got into one of his design spirals. You sighed and picked up the overstuffed trash bag he swore he’d take out in five minutes, and slipped into the hallway wearing nothing but a tank top and pajama shorts. Comfortable. Innocent. Dangerous, if the wrong pair of eyes landed on you.
The elevator was broken again, so you took the stairs. The stairwell was quiet, lit by that moody orange security bulb that always made you feel like you were passing through a crime documentary reenactment. You pushed open the back door toward the dumpster and nearly collided with Yeosang. He was standing under the dim alley light, breath fogging faintly in the chilly air. Black hoodie unzipped. But he wasn’t alone. Three others clustered near him, two guys you vaguely recognized as neighbors from the second floor, and a girl hanging off his arm like she’d been born there. She had glossy lips, a tiny skirt, and nails painted the same dark shade as Yeosang’s. Her hand was on his bicep, fingers tracing little circles like she owned the access.
Yeosang didn’t exactly welcome it, but he didn’t seem bothered either. He had that half distracted look he wore during deals, polite enough not to piss anyone off, detached enough to keep boundaries intact. The second he saw you, though….. His posture shifted. His attention snapped. And the girl’s hand? Ignored like she’d suddenly turned invisible. “Careful,” he said, taking a half step forward so you didn’t actually bump into him. His voice dipped lower, softer, something unmistakably warm in it. “Didn’t expect you to be out this late.”
Your fingers tightened around the trash bag. “Hongjoong fell asleep on the couch again.”
Yeosang’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Sounds like him.” One of the guys glanced between you and Yeosang, eyebrows lifting like he’d just witnessed a plot twist as the girl tugged at his arm again, trying to pull his attention back to her but Yeosang didn’t even look her way. “Cold out here,” he said to you, eyes dragging, slowly, deliberately over your bare legs before flicking back up. “You should’ve put on a jacket.”
The girl finally snapped her gum. “Yeo…”
“Yeosang,” he corrected absently, still looking at you. Like you were the only one standing in that alley. You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of the thin strap of your tank top slipping off your shoulder. He noticed, you knew he did, because his jaw flexed just once. “What’re you doing down here?” you asked, trying for casual and failing miserably. He nodded toward the trio behind him. “Seeing some people out. Nothing exciting.” It was almost laughable how blatantly he’d checked out of their conversation the moment you appeared. One of the guys even nudged the girl with a smirk like, tough luck.
Yeosang took another small step closer, like he couldn’t help it. “You need help with that?” he asked, chin dipping toward the trash bag in your hand. “No, I got it.” He hummed. soft, amused and definitely flirting. “Didn’t say you didn’t. Just asked if you wanted help.” Your heart stuttered as behind him, the girl huffed dramatically, folding her arms when she realized his attention wasn’t returning. “Anyway,” he murmured, brushing a bit of hair from his face, “didn’t expect to run into you.” His tone made it sound a whole lot like, glad I did.
The trash bag barely weighed anything, but Yeosang plucked it out of your hand like it offended him, fingers brushing your knuckles in a way that shot heat straight up your arm. He didn’t say anything about the touch, he just gave you that lazy, unreadable glance before turning and tossing the bag effortlessly into the dumpster as the girl called his name again, sharper this time, but he didn’t even look back. Instead, he lifted his chin at the group, a wordless, go on, and the two guys immediately started drifting toward the street. The girl lingered, clearly irritated, but after a beat she scoffed and followed them.
By the time you pushed the building door open, Yeosang was already falling into step behind you, hands in his pockets, steps unhurried like he had all the time in the world. Inside, the hallway’s quiet hum wrapped around the two of you. He walked just close enough that you could feel his warmth at your side, close enough that your pulse betrayed you. He waited until you were halfway down the hall before speaking. “Haven’t seen Trevor around,” he said, voice steady but threaded with something darker. “Did the building luck out and lose him, or….”
You snorted under your breath. “You really didn’t like him, huh?”
Yeosang’s expression sharpened for a moment, jaw tightening, lips pressing into a line that told you he’d been holding back a long list of opinions. “He was loud,” he said. “And rude. And fake nice to Hongjoong. And he looked at you like you were furniture.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t frown. He just stated it like a fact he’d been cataloguing for months as you slowed your steps, turning your head slightly. “Well… I broke up with him.”
Yeosang stopped walking. His boots went still on the hallway carpet. His breath caught just slightly. And when you turned fully to face him, his eyes were already on you. “Yeah?” he asked quietly and you could only nod. For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Like his brain had just short circuited on one simple phrase, you broke up with him. Because now? Now you were single. Now the thing he’d been quietly wanting since the day you and Hongjoong moved in, messy arms full of boxes, your laugh echoing down this same hallway, was suddenly not off limits.
He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you felt the charge between you tighten into something unmistakable. “Why’d you dump him?” he asked, voice low making you swallow. “He cheated on me.” Silence enveloped around you. Not empty silence, charged silence. Hot silence. The kind that felt like a fuse had just been lit between you as Yeosang’s jaw flexed once and his eyes lowered, then lifted again, slower this time, heavier. “Figures,” he murmured. “He never deserved you.” His voice wasn’t jealous. It wasn’t angry. It was protective. Possessive in a way he wasn’t even trying to hide. And underneath it all, there was this steady hum of restraint, like he was two steps away from saying something he’d been holding back for way too long.
He took another half step toward you, bleached blonde hair falling into his eyes, breath brushing your cheek. “You okay?” he asked. Not out of politeness. Not out of habit. But like he genuinely cared. Like he’d been caring this whole time. Your fingers tightened on the doorknob, the cool metal grounding you just enough to keep your voice steady. But Yeosang’s eyes, soft, intent, right there, made honesty slip out far too easily. “No…” you said quietly. “I mean… I’m fine with the whole Trevor thing. It’s not like I thought I was going to marry him or was in love with him. But…” A breath left you. Slow and heavy. “It’s my dad. My job. It almost feels like it’s… suffocating.”
Yeosang didn’t look away for even a second. He wasn’t doing that polite nod people do when they’re pretending to listen. He was actually listening. Every word, every pause, every little crack in your voice. And that alone nearly undid you. He shifted his weight, stepping just an inch closer, enough that the air between you warmed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.” His gaze swept over your face once, slow and thoughtful before he asked, almost too casually, “You ever smoke before?”
The look you gave him was half disbelief, half are you insane, because… Your father is literally a cop. Your father has lectured you more times than you can count about staying away from people like that. And people like that was standing three inches from you with his eyes softening in a way that made your pulse skip. “Yeo…” you said, warning in your tone and his lips curled into a slow, sinful smile. The kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing. The kind that made your knees feel like unreliable furniture. “Come on,” he said gently, voice dipping low again. Sometimes you forgot just how deep his voice could get. “I got just the thing to make that pretty head of yours relax.”
Your breath stalled. Pretty head. Relax. His voice wrapping around the words like warm smoke. He wasn’t teasing you, not really. He wasn’t being reckless or pushy, either. He was offering. Like he wanted to give you something he thought you deserved. He angled his head slightly as he looked at you through his lashes. “You trust me?” he asked, barely above a whisper and your heartbeat answered before you did.
You didn’t even have time to second guess yourself. One soft, “yeah” under your breath, and Yeosang was already pushing off the wall, opening his door with a quiet click, waiting for you to step inside first like he’d been imagining this moment far longer than he’d ever admit. His apartment felt like stepping into someone’s brain, someone chaotic, talented, messy in the way artists always are, and somehow still effortlessly cool. Warm, dim lighting. EDM music humming low from an old stereo in the corner, something moody and atmospheric. The TV was mounted on the wall playing anime on mute, subtitles dancing across the screen. And then the details that made your breath catch…. A record player on a shelf with a stack of vinyl beside it. A worn couch with a dark throw blanket tossed over the back.
A sketchbook left open on the coffee table, sitting next to a rolling tray full of papers, a grinder, and the unmistakable scent of something you’d never admit smelled… kind of nice. You’d never been inside his apartment before, and it was exactly him. Warm. Loner. Unexpectedly soft around the edges. Your eyes drifted to the open sketchbook first. On the page, charcoal lines, quick strokes, something half finished but unmistakably intimate. Shoulders. A throat. The curve of a jaw. Someone he’d been studying carefully.
Yeosang saw where you were looking but didn’t comment. He just smiled that quiet, knowing smile and walked past you, fingers brushing the stereo to turn the music down a notch. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, nodding at the couch. “Ignore the mess.” There wasn’t really a mess. Just signs of a life lived late at night, records, loose drawings, sleeves of snacks, a hoodie draped over the arm of the sofa, a katana on the wall that you were hoping was decorative but… with Yeosang? Hard to tell.
Your gaze drifted again to the sketchbook. You couldn’t help it. “That one’s… rough,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t done.”
“It’s good,” you murmured, taking a seat on the couch.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice warm, like your opinion actually meant something as he dropped onto the couch beside you, not too close, not too far. Close enough you could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough the faint scent of smoke and sandalwood tugged at you as he nodded toward the rolling tray. “Alright,” he said lightly, “let’s get you out of that headspace before you implode.”
You blinked. “Implode?”
“You looked five seconds from it in the hallway.” He gave you a small smirk. “Figured I’d help.” He picked up the grinder. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, voice dipping low once more, almost careful now. “No pressure. No expectations. Just… letting you breathe a little.” And the way he said it, calm, patient, like he’d never push you farther than you wanted to go, made something in your chest unwind. You nodded and his smile softened as he set to work. Slow movements. Confident hands. The soft scrape of metal. The quiet rustle of paper. And every now and then, he glanced at you. Small, secretive looks that landed like sparks. “You can put on whatever you want,” he murmured, nodding at the remote. “Or leave the anime. Either way.”
You flicked your eyes to the TV, some battle scene frozen mid frame on mute, and breathed out a tiny laugh. He liked the sound of it. You could tell by the way his fingers slowed. “Relax,” he whispered. “You’re safe here.” He worked with a slow, practiced ease, palming the leaf paper, fingers moving with that calm confidence that made you wonder how many nights he’d spent right here, doing exactly this. The blunt took shape under his hands, tight and perfect, and he sealed it with one drag of his tongue that made your stomach flip entirely too hard.
He didn’t seem to notice the way your breath caught. Or maybe he did. He usually did. When he was finished, he leaned back against the couch, lighter flicking open with a soft metallic snap. The tiny flame lit his face in warm gold, catching on his hair and the silver hoops in his ears as he brought the blunt to his lips. You watched, too intently, maybe, but you couldn’t look away as he took a long, slow inhale, cheeks hollowing Eyes half lidded with smoke curling at the edges of his mouth like he’d stepped right out of a dream you weren’t supposed to have. Then he exhaled smooth, controlled, letting the air between you thicken just a little. Without a word, he held it out to you and your pulse jumped.
The blunt hovered inches from your hand, and you just… stared. Because suddenly your dad’s voice was there in your head. Along with the image of him showing up out of nowhere, finding you here, and dying on the spot before resurrecting for the sole purpose of killing Yeosang. You hesitated and he just watched you with those dark, steady eyes, soft around the edges, patient in a way that made your heart ache. “It’s just us,” he murmured. “No one’s finding out.”
Your throat tightened, but you reached out anyway. Your fingers brushed his as you took the blunt and brought it to your lips. The first hit made a tiny cough escape you, embarrassing and immediate. Yeosang smiled, small, real and fond. “Not bad,” he murmured as you took another hit. Then another. Something in your chest loosening, edges softening, the day finally starting to melt away and Yeosang watched every second. His eyes followed the way your lips closed around the end. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way the tension eased out of you, inch by inch. And there was something in his expression, quiet and hungry and impossibly tender, that made your next inhale deeper than you meant it to be.
“Easy,” he said softly, leaning just a little closer. “You’re doing good.” His voice felt like smoke too, warm, slow, wrapping around you in a way that made your thighs clench. And suddenly, being here… with him… alone… Yeosang took the blunt from your fingers with that same careful touch, like he didn’t want to break the moment, or you, or whatever soft thing had settled between the two of you.
He took a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling, smoke swirling lazily above him before drifting into the dim light. His hoodie slipped off one shoulder as he leaned back, revealing the black tank top underneath, stretched perfectly across his chest. His birthmark by his eye making him look ethereal with the blonde hair. God, he looked good. Unfairly good. You sank deeper into the couch, warmth spreading through your limbs, the noise of the city fading to nothing.
The high crept in slowly, soft around the edges, turning your muscles into warm taffy and your thoughts into something looser, silkier, impossible to hold onto for more than a second as Yeosang assed the blunt back to you. You brought it to your lips, inhaled, exhaled, your chest swelling, head tipping back against the couch. The ceiling blurred pleasantly, and you felt… free. Lighter. Like the world had let up on its chokehold for once. When you passed it to him, he didn’t look away from you. Not once. He took it, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyelids had grown heavy, the way your body relaxed into his couch like it belonged there.
He took a hit, smoke slipping out of the corner of his mouth before he murmured. “Good?” You nodded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah… yeah. Really good.” He smirked, looking almost proud of himself, as if calming you down was a skill he’d always wanted an excuse to show off. You took the blunt again. Another inhale. Another wave of warmth. And then your thoughts…. loosened by the high, softened by the music, sharpened by the boy sitting next to you, began drifting exactly where they shouldn’t.
He was beautiful. Like, stupidly beautiful. Blonde hair falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn’t be legal. Jawline sharp enough to hurt someone. Lips soft, parted slightly as he breathed smoke out. Thick lashes casting shadows you could get lost in. And those eyes, dark, warm, always gentle with you and only you. You felt your stomach dip again. Then felt panic. Hongjoong was right. Of course he was right.
You wanted Yeosang. You’d always wanted him. Ever since you moved in. Ever since he smiled at you in the hallway for the first time. You wanted him. And high or not, you couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore as your head lolled slightly to the side, eyes drifting back to him. He was already watching you. Really watching you. Like he could see every thought slipping through your mind. Like he liked what he saw there.
The blunt hovered between the two of you again, glowing softly at the tip, and his lips curled around a slow, knowing smile. “Feeling better?” he asked, voice low, warm, and just a little dangerous and the truth spilled right through you. “Yeah… I am.” And maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was both. But suddenly the space between you didn’t feel nearly big enough. “My dad would kill you if he knew you were corrupting me.” The second the words left your lips, you froze.
Yeosang choked out a laugh, low and rough at the edges and warm enough to make your stomach dip. Then he grinned. Full, wide, unbothered and a little smug. “Oh, I know,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch, smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Trust me, your dad’s got that look every time he sees me. Like he’s trying to figure out if arresting me on sight is worth the paperwork.”
Your lips twitched. “It probably is.”
“Oh, he’d love to throw me in a cell,” Yeosang murmured, eyes drifting back to you. “But not nearly as much as he hates the fact that I live across the hall from his kid.” Heat crawled up your neck. “You should’ve seen the way he glared at me last week,” he continued, voice dipping rougher with amusement. “He looked at me like I was singlehandedly destroying the youth of Chicago.” You snorted, covering your smile with your hand. “Well… you do deal.”
Yeosang shrugged, stretching one arm over the back of the couch, casual, but close enough that your shoulder brushed his hoodie. “Yeah,” he said softly, “but that’s not why he hates me.” Your breath stalled as he watched you, pausing and letting the weight of his own words hang between you, warm and electric. “He hates me,” he said, voice dropping to something deeper, “because he knows I notice you.”
Your heart flipped so hard it hurt as he took the blunt back, inhaled, exhaled slowly, smoke drifting between you like a secret. “Knows I look at you,” he added. “Knows I… like you.” Your pulse stumbled and your mouth went dry as the high wrapped around you like warm velvet. And Yeosang watched your reaction with that same lazy, devastating smile. “Corrupting you,” he repeated amused. “You really think that’s what I’m doing?”
Your laugh came out breathy. “Feels like it.”
He leaned closer, not touching you, just near enough that you felt his warmth slide along your skin. “Nah,” he whispered. “You came over here all on your own.” He stood, stretching a little as he walked to the kitchen, and the motion pulled your eyes with it. He grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, tossing one lightly into your hands before dropping back onto the couch beside you much closer than before. He shrugged out of his hoodie in one fluid motion, and your breath caught. The black tank top underneath clung to him, defined shoulders, defined arms, the faintest line of muscle shifting when he twisted the cap off his water. You took a sip of yours just to keep your mouth from hanging open.
He glanced over mid sip, catching you staring but he didn’t call you out on it. He just smirked, a tiny, knowing twitch at the corner of his mouth as you exhaled, heat spreading through you, leaning back into the couch as you felt that feeling of panic again. Then, before you could think better of it, you blurted, “Can we smoke another one?” Because maybe that would calm your nerves. Yeosang stopped mid drink. For a second, he just blinked at you… and then he let out a breathless laugh, head falling back, hair brushing his cheek. “Oh,” he said, voice warm and disbelieving, “you’re dangerous.”
He set the water down, reaching across your bare legs for the rolling tray on the table. His arm brushed your thigh, warm, solid and he pulled the tray toward him. Except… he miscalculated. The tray slipped, tilted and fumbled. And the entire handful of weed tipped forward right onto your thighs. Your eyes widened and his did too as he froze, breath catching tight in his throat. “Don’t move,” he said sharply, panic wrapped in a whisper as you looked down.
The small pile of green sat perfectly cradled in the crease where your thighs were pressed together, held neatly in place by your bare skin and the edge of your shorts. One wrong shift and the whole pile would spill onto the couch. Yeosang set the tray aside, lifting his hands like he’d just witnessed a bomb detonate. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, staring at your thighs like they’d betrayed him personally. “Okay, uh…. dont…. just… don’t move.” His voice was low, frantic, but something else simmered beneath it. Something he was definitely trying not to let slip.
“You good?” you asked softly.
“No,” he said too quickly. Then he cleared his throat. “I mean…. yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just… don’t move.”
You bit your lip to keep from smiling as his eyes flicked up, caught the smile, then dropped back to your thighs because he had no choice. The sight clearly did things to him. He swallowed hard. “I swear I’m not doing this on purpose,” he mumbled, already leaning forward, hands hovering over your legs but not quite touching. “But… holy shit…. don’t move.” He stared at the precarious pile again, exhaling through his nose like he needed a moment to collect himself. Your bare legs. Your thighs. His weed. Yeosang let out a slow breath, then gently pushed the coffee table back with one hand, clearing space between his knees and yours. The movement was smooth, almost cautious, like he already knew the situation was balancing on the razor’s edge of becoming something neither of you could pretend away later.
Then he lowered himself onto his knees in front of you and the sight alone made heat crawl up your throat. He glanced up, silently asking permission and you nodded. His hand hovered for a second, steady but tense, before he brought it to your thigh, using the side of his fingers to scrape the scattered pieces back onto the tray. His touch was careful, the barest brush against your skin. Still, every tiny drag sent a warm shiver up your legs. He cleared most of it easily… but the smaller bits clung stubbornly to your skin, catching in the warmth of your thighs. He sat back on his heels for a moment, exhaling. “Okay,” he murmured, voice a little rough, “I think that’s the majority of it.”
You didn’t say anything. You just slowly… let your thighs part and Yeosang froze. The rolling tray creaked under the pressure of his grip, like he was holding onto it for dear life. His eyes darted up to your face, wide, dark, stunned, before lowering again despite himself. He swallowed hard, adams apple bobbing and you smirked despite your nerves peaking. His jaw tightened. His breathing slowed, like he was physically restraining himself from taking in too much at once. Still kneeling. Still inches from where he wanted to look. He stayed perfectly still for another second, like moving too fast would somehow make the moment worse. His fingers flexed once around the rolling tray before he let out a slow breath through his nose. “You are going to be the death of me,” he muttered, the words barely louder than the music drifting through the apartment.
You couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at your lips. “What?” He shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. “Nothing.” It absolutely wasn’t nothing. His attention dropped back to your thighs, though this time he was determined not to linger. Using the edge of his thumb, he carefully gathered the stubborn little flakes that refused to cooperate, brushing them onto the tray with painstaking precision. Every accidental touch against your skin sent another spark racing through both of you. “There,” he murmured at last, setting the tray safely on the coffee table. “Crisis averted.”
You looked down dramatically. “You saved the weed.”
“I did.”
“Not me.”
Yeosang finally looked back up, one brow lifting. “You weren’t the one in danger.” A laugh bubbled out of you, loose and genuine, the sound filling the apartment in a way that made something soften behind his eyes. “There it is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“That laugh. Haven’t heard it in a while.” His smile slowly faded into something smaller. “I missed it.” Neither of you spoke after that. The silence wasn’t awkward. It just felt… full. Yeosang cleared his throat first, almost embarrassed by his own honesty, and reached for the grinder again. “So…” he said, deliberately lighter. “Round two?” You nodded immediately and he laughed. “I knew you were going to say yes.”
“You called me dangerous.”
“I’m beginning to think I was right.” He rolled the second blunt a little slower this time, mostly because he kept catching himself looking at you instead of his hands. When it was finished, he lit it with another flick of the lighter, taking the first inhale before passing it over. “No heroics,” he reminded softly. “Little hits.”
“Yes, mom.”
He gave you an unimpressed look. “I don’t think that’s a sentence anyone’s ever said to me.”
“It is now.”
You both laughed. The second blunt tasted smoother somehow, the smoke no longer unfamiliar. The music wrapped around the apartment like a blanket while muted anime continued playing in the background, forgotten by both of you. Conversation came easier. You talked about Hongjoong’s habit of stealing everyone’s hoodies. Yeosang admitted Mrs. Rivera paid him in homemade empanadas whenever he carried her groceries upstairs. You confessed you’d once accidentally microwaved ramen without water during finals week.
He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. “You actually did that?”
“I was exhausted!”
“You made… toasted noodles.”
“I know!”
“I wish I’d seen it.”
“You would’ve bullied me.”
“I absolutely would’ve.”
The room felt lighter. Safer. Until… something shifted. It started subtly. Your heartbeat, which had been comfortably slow moments ago, suddenly kicked hard against your ribs. Then harder. The apartment suddenly felt… warmer. The music louder. Your thoughts, which had been drifting lazily before, began tripping over each other. You swallowed. “Yeo?”
“Hm?”
“I…” You frowned. “I feel…” Your chest tightened as you took a breath but it didn’t feel like enough. You took another. Still not enough. The walls seemed just a little farther away than they had been a second ago. Your fingers curled around the water bottle. “I…” You laughed once, nervously. “I don’t think…” Yeosang’s smile disappeared and he sat up straighter. “Hey.” Your breathing grew quicker without you meaning for it to. “I don’t… I can’t…”
“Look at me.”
You tried but your vision had started swimming. “I think something’s wrong.”
His stomach dropped. Shit. Too much. It was your first time. He’d warned you to go slow. He set the blunt down immediately, leaning closer. “Hey, hey… you’re okay.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“You are.”
“No…” Your breathing became quicker still. “I can’t catch my breath.”
Yeosang’s mind went completely blank. He’d dealt with difficult customers. Nosy neighbors. Even one guy who’d passed out in his hallway. But this? This was different. Because it was you. He reached for your hands, wrapping both of his around them. “Look at me.” Your eyes darted to his. “They’re…” You shook your head. “Everything feels weird.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know.”
His own heart was racing now. Think. Think. Do something. Anything. Then, completely out of nowhere, an absurd memory surfaced. Some show he watched one random late night half asleep months ago.…. “I’m about to do something really stupid,” he murmured and you blinked at him, confused. “What?” He hesitated only another heartbeat. Then, gently, he cupped your face, thumbs resting lightly against your cheeks. “If this doesn’t work,” he whispered, almost apologetically, “you have full permission to make fun of me for the rest of my life.”
Before you could ask what he meant…. he leaned forward and his lips met yours in the softest kiss imaginable. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just warm. Gentle. A quiet press of his mouth against yours that lasted only a few seconds before he slowly pulled back, staying close enough that your foreheads nearly touched and your breathing had paused in surprise. “I…” he admitted sheepishly, refusing to hide now that he’d committed, “I saw it on TV once.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“A panic attack…” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, looking adorably embarrassed. “The character said sometimes… kissing someone can make you hold your breath for a second and… I don’t know, gives your brain something else to focus on.” He winced. “It sounded a lot smarter on television.” Silence stretched between you once again before you tugged Yeosang closer by the front of his shirt, the high making every sensation sharper and softer at once again.
Your mouth found his, this time with more heat, tongues sliding together as you pressed in deep. The kiss turned messy fast, breaths mingling while your hands roamed up his chest and without breaking contact you shifted, swinging one leg over to straddle him fully, settling into his lap with a slow grind of your hips that made him groan into your mouth. The panic from earlier had faded completely under the haze and the feel of him beneath you. You trailed kisses down his jaw to his neck, sucking lightly at the skin there, tasting salt and warmth. Your lips parted against his pulse point, tongue flicking out as your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his pants then you hooked a thumb inside, tugging gently at the fabric, ready to push further…..
Yeosang's hands came up to catch yours, firm but gentle, pulling them back up to rest on his shoulders. "We can't do this while you're high," he said, voice low and rough against your ear. His breath hitched as you nipped at his throat again. "I want to. Fuck, I want you more than anything right now. But not like this. Not when your head isn't clear."
You kissed him again, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to murmur against his lips, "Then no sex... yet." The words hung between you as you rocked your hips forward, pressing down against the growing hardness in his pants making him grip your hips in response, fingers digging in to guide the motion, helping build that steady friction. You moved in long, deliberate rolls, feeling the outline of his dick rub right where you needed it, mostly through the layers of clothing. Each grind sent sparks up your spine as you kept the pace unhurried at first, savoring the way his body tensed under you, the way his thumbs stroked circles on your skin just above your waistband.
The fabric of his pants created just enough drag against you, building heat with every pass. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging lightly as you leaned in to kiss his neck again, open mouthed and wet, leaving marks that would show later. Yeosang's breathing grew heavier, his grip tightening to angle your hips better, pressing you down harder on each forward rock so the pressure hit deeper. You lost track of time in the rhythm, the room fading to just the sound of shared breaths and the soft creak of the couch under you.
Your movements grew a fraction quicker as the tension coiled tighter in your belly and Yeosang helped, lifting his own hips in small thrusts to meet yours, the friction turning insistent. You felt yourself tipping over, thighs trembling around him as the orgasm rolled through in waves, your body clenching and pulsing against the hard line of him as a soft moan escaped your throat, muffled into his shoulder.
He didn't stop. Instead he pulled you even closer, grinding you frantically now against him, using your hips like handles to chase his own release. The movements turning desperate, short and sharp, his dick twitching under the repeated pressure and you stayed with him through it, kissing his neck and jaw as he came with a low curse, heat spreading between you both as he held you tight through the aftershocks. The scent of weed and heat and hints of sex masked the air.
“So…..” his hands were still gripping your hips. “that’s one way to relax.” You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. Breathless and satisfied. You kissed his jaw, trailing your lips back up to his own. “Want to smoke another one?”
Yeosang leaned his head back, chuckling and glancing back at you still in his lap.
“Yeah….. you’re definitely dangerous.”
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