ᯓ ➤ BOYFRIEND HOTLINE | JJK | SESSION FOUR
synopsis: need a shoulder to cry on or someone to get you off late at night? fear not, because boyfriend hotline is a brand new app that will match you with someone who is more than happy to fulfill any of your boyfriend-related needs.
genre: jjk x reader (fem), smau mini-series, smut, fluff, crack
tags/warnings: phone sex, he calls her a brat and princess, mentions of getting slapped, big dildo, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, orgasms, minor angst towards the end, they have deep talks!
wc: 7.0k (woohoo!)
a/n: heyyyy guys... *tentatively peeks head through door* im sorry it's taken me a literal month to update this, it's a written chapter and i had a lot of big life stuff going on so i've just been so busy fjasdjfjf IM SORRY! but shout out to @gukcnt and @lluciboo for being the number 1 fans like i love u guys sm. and despite how long it took, i actually had SOO much fun writing this teehee. so i hope u guys love it too! as always thank u sm for being here, enjoy!!!
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Shuffling in bed, you position your phone so that when Jungkook picks up, he can see your face and chest clearly, maybe only getting a glimpse of the cream-colored headboard behind you.
You check your reflection in your phone camera, touch up your face with some lipgloss from your bedside table, and take a deep breath before hitting “start one-time video call.”
Heart pounding. Palms sweating. Hands trembling—to the point that you almost press the wrong button. But you don’t, and the phone starts to ring.
Good thing you already have your “pretty” pajamas on, you think, which just consists of white Brandy Melville booty shorts and a pink skin-tight spaghetti-strap tank top. No bra.
Fuck. Your nipples poke through a little. You hide, bringing your covers above your chest and tucking them into your armpits as you wait for Jungkook to pick up.
Does your hair look okay? Do your dark circles show? You clear your throat, shaking your head and trying to calm yourself. He’s just Jungkook. The guy you’ve sexted a few times and may or may not have developed a small crush on and gotten slightly (very) emotionally attached to.
Yup. Just Jungkook. Any moment now, he’d appear on the screen.
After five rings, he finally does.
Your breath catches. Holy shit.
Your heart thrashes in your chest, doing somersaults and all kinds of acrobatics when you finally get a good look at him.
His hair looks fluffier than in his picture, and his features appear softer as well. He’s sitting on what is presumably his couch, wearing a devilishly tight black Nike compression shirt. When he shifts slightly, you can see his grey sweatpants and a sliver of his signature Calvin Klein underwear.
Unsurprisingly, he is gorgeous.
What is surprising is how freaking cute he is when he smiles.
“Hey there, pretty lady.”
Oh screw that. His voice is the most pornographic thing you’ve ever heard—soft, low, and manly in a way that doesn’t intimidate but still feels gravelly.
Maybe you’re just losing your mind, but you can almost feel his breath tumbling from your speakers. He also sounds annoyingly smug—so much so that you want to scoff out loud.
“Hi,” you reply, fighting the awkward tinge in your voice. “So this thing really works, huh?”
You wonder if you sound as nervous as you are.
“Well, we are here, aren’t we?” He brushes his hair back with his hand, which you notice is inked with intricate tattoos. “So princess, do I look as good as I do in my picture?”
He really does—even better, in fact—and that makes you go a little bit insane, but you sure as well aren’t going to show it.
“No comment.”
He chuckles, huffing out a half-laugh through his nose. “Crumbs. That’s all you give me, princess, crumbs.”
You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m not the service provider, you are. I don’t have to ‘give’ you anything.”
“Fiesty as always,” he says good-naturedly. “Lucky for you, I’m into that. You look really good, by the way. Profile picture doesn’t do you justice—you’re way cuter.”
You try not to be swayed by his kind words. He’s just doing this because he’s getting paid to, you remind yourself.
“Ever the sweet-talker, huh?” You force a neutral—maybe somewhat stern expression on your face. “So tell me, what is it that you needed to say so badly but couldn’t say over text?”
He takes a deep breath, repositioning the camera slightly.
“Alright,” he sighs. “I guess we’ll get right into it then.”
“Sure. Let’s hear it.”
Curiosity peeks through your voice despite your efforts to sound bored.
“I wanted to tell you about Yumi.” Your lungs stop working for a moment. He continues. “She’s probably my most regular client—and she’s been with me the longest.”
Yumi—the girl whose comment sent you spiralling for a good few hours—is his oldest and most frequent client. Not shocking, but still painful.
Really, you have no reason to be hurt. This is what you signed up for: a service provider. A boyfriend for thirty minutes. Something temporary and transactional. Of course he’d have other clients.
But something about seeing another girl claim to have “such a special connection” with him gave you a reality check. You were getting too possessive and emotionally invested over a man that wouldn’t have spared you a second glance if you weren’t putting money into his pockets.
Yes, it’s true that you are underfucked. Yes, you’ve been particularly lonely recently.
Your last relationship ended with you chucking another girl’s underwear towards your ex and storming out of his apartment in tears, certain that your sexual desires were far too obscene and that’s what drove him away from you.
Your last date ended with you finishing an entire bottle of wine by yourself at some overpriced Italian restaurant, stumbling home with a broken heel.
Still, that doesn’t mean you can just start falling for some guy who’s being paid to text you. Unfortunately, Jungkook is making it really hard to not do just that.
“But I want you to know that she’s really nothing special to me. I think she likes me a lot because, well, she kind of knows me in real life and we have similar social circles. It’s kind of an unspoken secret between us: the fact that she’s horny enough to use this app and the fact that I’m broke enough to have this kind of job.”
“I see.”
So they know each other in real life. And they probably lock eyes whenever they attend the same parties and gatherings, laughing silently to each other as their sexts from the night before resurface their minds. Totally cool.
“But aside from that, she’s really just another client. A little clingy, yes, but still a client. I’ve never seen her as anything else.”
“Really? Seems like the perfect plot for some trashy smutty Tumblr fanfiction.” Each word feels like biting into a brick. “You sext someone on some dating app and then find them in your friend group the next day and then hook up in a club bathroom afterwards.”
“It’s not like that, I swear—” he cuts himself off to let out an exasperated breath, “—I’ve only seen her in real life like, twice. And I’ve never hooked up with any clients.”
Your heart stutters.
“All she does during our sessions is rant about her life and I tell her to—I don’t fucking know—forget about it and focus on talking to me instead. She likes that, I guess. But honestly, I don’t really care. It’s the same fucking routine every time. But with you—” he stops for a moment to laugh, “—you’re always surprising me. You don’t make things easy. And I like that a lot.”
Although he’s just a moving image behind your screen, you can see the vulnerability in his face and the desperation in his voice. He’s probably infringing on some employee contract, telling you private details about his sessions with another client.
“Why are you even telling me this?”
He gives a half-hearted snicker, leaning back onto his couch with a sigh. The call’s static whirrs as he thinks of a response.
“I don’t know,” he says. You can tell it’s an honest answer. “But I couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking that you’re just another client to me.”
“If I’m not just another client,” you start, voice almost giving up on you, “What am I?”
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“I… don’t know,” he finally replies. You’re not sure if that’s the answer you wanted, but his sincerity shakes you nonetheless. “I don’t know what you are to me, but I know that you’re… special. And I wanted you to know that too.”
You shift slightly in your bed, searching for a suitable response.
You don’t want to give in and tell him how much you look forward to talking to him. You don’t want to admit how much of an effect he has on you. But here he is, pouring his heart out, and what can you even give in return?
“Do you believe me?” he asks.
What kind of game does he think he’s playing? And why does it feel like he’s winning?
You stare at him through your phone screen and consider your next move as he looks at you anxiously, his composed facade flickering away with every second that you leave him hanging. A part of you wants to let it go and move on, while the darker, more evil part of you wants to make him beg for forgiveness, even though he hasn’t technically done anything wrong.
The latter part prevails.
So, you choose to be annoying—to piss him off—and make him feel as bad as you did when you saw Yumi’s review and his reply. Make him consider dropping the whole Boyfriend Hotline thing altogether to pursue you as his one and only client instead.
Selfish? Yes. Sorry? No.
“I guess I believe you,” you start. “But I hope you don’t start thinking that you’re necessarily anything special to me, though.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Haven’t I told you? I’ve been talking to other guys, too. I only use you when I want a quick fix. I mean, isn’t that what Boyfriend Hotline is for?”
A moment of stunned silence passes.
Then, he laughs, boyish and low with his head thrown back and Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You’re really trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“Not particularly trying,” you lie, biting your lip. “Am I, though?”
“I expect nothing less from a brat.” Anger looks good on him, you think. “Are you really that jealous?”
“Jealous? More like offended,” you scoff. “You say all this shit about wanting me so bad only to do the same thing to ten other girls, probably. I’m not a fan of liars.”
You intend to be mean. You want to make him panic. But you’re amused—a little giddy at his previous confession—and it shows in the playful lilt of your voice, which he no doubt notices.
His eyes darken.
“I promise, no other girl has turned me on the way you have.”
“Oh yeah?” You smile slowly. Sinister. Bold. “Then prove it.”
You’ve folded. He’s won. You know it and so does he.
“And how would you like me to do that?”
Fuck playing hard to get. Fuck making him feel bad or guilty or whatever. He’s right there—eyes glued to you, desperate for your attention—and you want him. Badly.
“Show me.” Your mouth goes dry. “Show me what I do to you.”
His face hardens, staring at you intently through the screen.
“Only if you do exactly as I say, dumb brat,” he finally says, practically grunting. “You want me to jerk off to you? Then give me a show, princess.”
This is really happening. You muster all of the courage you have and ignore the somersaults in your stomach.
“Deal.”
He smirks. You squirm.
“Wait,” he commands sharply, standing up and bringing his phone with him.
“Where are you taking me?”
You catch blurred glimpses of his house as he walks by. Eventually, he sets you down on a counter and faces you towards tile walls.
“Bathroom,” he mumbles into the microphone, voice tickling your ears. “I’ll be back.”
He disappears for a moment, and you hear the sound of doors opening and closing along with his urgent footsteps.
Without you realizing it, your covers rolled down mid call, revealing your hardened nipples and the curve of your chest through the thin fabric of your tank top. Lifting your covers, you sneak a hand into your panties, marveling at the slick gushiness that returns.
Alright, so when the fuck did that happen? You really need to get fucked soon. You can’t be getting this turned on by a man behind a screen.
You hear a door open, and then close. Jungkook enters the frame.
Except this time, he’s shirtless, only wearing his low-hanging grey sweatpants, which have been pulled down even more, somehow, providing a clearer view of his happy trail and white Calvin Klein boxers.
But even more surprising is his fucking body. Not only does he have a full fucking sleeve of tattoos, going all the way from his knuckles to his collarbones, but he has a full on six-pack, with broad shoulders and biceps that look like they can crush you with a single curl.
“Like what you see?” He seems amused by your ogling.
From the tiny corner at the top of your phone, you realize that all he’s seeing is your wide eyes as you hold the phone close to your face and gawk at him.
“Shut up.” You move the camera to show a more respectable angle of your face.
He grins, clearly enjoying your flustered state.
“Never gonna say a nice thing to me?”
“Never.”
“So cute,” he murmurs under his breath, as if it isn’t meant for you to hear. “Anyways, I have a surprise for you.”
That catches your attention. “A surprise?”
“Mhm.”
You wait. He doesn’t say shit about the “surprise.”
“What is it?” you finally ask.
He snorts, beefy arms caging the frame as he leans down. “Well, you’re going to have to earn it, brat. Where’s my show?”
Fuck. Right.
You’re the one who has to turn him on right now. Why the hell did you say that earlier?
“I can’t believe you always make me do stuff first,” you grumble, sitting up and pulling down your covers. “Worst service provider ever.”
He takes the jab easily. “Alright, alright,” he concedes. “How about I help you get started?”
You nod. “Yes please.”
A slow, amused chuckle. So he finds this cute.
“Why don’t you start by showing me what you’re wearing tonight, princess?”
God, Jungkook’s voice should be illegal. If he ever switches his profession to an audiobook reader, you think that he can make even your required readings sound interesting.
Gulping, you lay down flat, swinging your covers to the side, and slowly dragging the camera down.
From his perspective, he’d be seeing your body from a bird's eye view. Your shorts have rolled up slightly, showing off more of your thighs, and your tank top’s equally a mess, straps down, nipples poking through, belly button playing peek-a-boo.
The reaction is immediate.
His lips part, breath spilling out in a desperate huff, and his eyes go matte, pupils dilating as he leans toward the phone camera with two hands on the sink counter as if steadying himself somehow.
“Like what you see?” you mirror his earlier line.
He acts composed. “Mhm, I really do,” he mumbles, voice rumbling close to the camera.
The sudden coldness from the absence of your covers gives you goosebumps.
“Want to… see more?”
“Yeah.”
Heart hammering against your chest, you lift up your tank top, letting the cotton pool at your collarbones. Your boobs are exposed, nipples already embarrassingly hard.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Wanna touch yourself?”
Over text, you didn’t have too many reservations about saying dirty things—it was why you downloaded the app in the first place. But now, when your voice carries your thoughts into the open, it feels more real. Obscene. Lewd. Scandalous. And you love it.
“Hell yeah I do,” he says immediately. “But you know what would really turn me on?”
“Hm?” you hum, breathless already.
“If you touched yourself too.” His voice is quiet. “Can you do that for me, baby?”
Fucking hell.
You hum an affirmative response.
Suddenly, all of the tension and banter from before is gone. Both of you are silent, anticipating the other’s every move. You can barely speak.
A deep breath.
Okay, you can do this. You set your phone down, propping it against a pillow at the edge of the bed so that it can stand up without you physically holding it.
He watches as your tank top falls back down, covering your body again.
A show. You have to give him a show, you think. There must be dozens of girls who he’d seen naked before over video call. For goodness sake, he makes girls masturbate for a living.
You want to stand out.
From the drawer at the bottom of your bedside table, you take out a dildo. His breath hitches, eyes trained on you like a hawk.
You gulp, your saliva feeling like cotton.
You get on your knees, sit on your heels, and check the tiny corner at the top of your screen to see what you look like to him.
The purple, bumpy dildo is front and center. You’re right behind it, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and chest heaving. Your bed, large with fluffy white covers, serves as a backdrop.
“That motherfucker is huge,” he finally comments. “Are you sure you can take it, princess?”
“How big are you?”
He snickers. “Bigger than that.”
“Then yes. I can.”
His eyes twitch and stomach clenches. You marvel at the reaction.
A bulge starts to form at his sweatpants—or maybe it’s been there for a while and you’ve only just now noticed. A small area is splotted dark from his precum. Holy shit. Are you even breathing?
“Fuck,” he finally leans back, starting to gently palm his cock through his sweatpants. “Take off that fucking top. Wanna see your tits.”
Wordlessly, you comply, pulling it off and inviting the cold that bites your skin.
He physically chokes out a breath seeing you topless, properly, for the first time.
You take the liberty to roll down your shorts, as well, ignoring the wet spot at the crotch area.
The grip on his cock gets tighter.
You see his chest rising and falling faster. The arm that’s still holding onto the sink counter flexes involuntarily. It’s like his whole body spasms with every move you make.
“Touch yourself.”
The permission is more needed than you’d like to admit.
“How?”
“Start with those pretty tits of yours,” he says immediately. “Slow circles. Pinch them a little if you want. Tease yourself.”
You nod in response, warmth tingling between your thighs. Electricity at the pit of your stomach.
When you touch your nipples, your head feels light. You can’t help but let out a soft, desperate sigh. Your eyes close, eyebrows scrunching up as pleasure wraps around you.
“Show me that pussy.” He tugs down his sweatpants and boxers in one go, his dick springing to life and slapping against his stomach. “Been dying to see it.”
You think you’ve seen big dicks before. But, he’s… not just big; he’s girthy, with veins so thick they could probably carve entire canals in your walls. So pretty. So pink. Deliciously leaking with precum.
You comply, sitting back and spreading your legs, baring your womanhood to the camera.
“Look at you, talking shit when you’re already this wet.” He stares at you, eyes clouded with desire. “Fucking brat. You’re dripping all over the place for me.”
You don’t reply, instead responding by starting to rub gentle circles on your clit. Your head falls back, a hiss slipping from your mouth. Your other hand comes up to tweak at your nipples, which elicits another whimper.
He spits on his hand—eyes never leaving you for a moment—and he starts pumping his length slowly.
“Pretty girl,” he coos.
On the screen, you see him hunched over, one hand on his shaft, and the other pressed on the counter by his phone. His tattooed arm flexes with every pump, abs twitching with every choked breath as he loses himself in the sight of you.
Fuck. You need more. So, you slide two fingers inside. Your pussy welcomes the stretch, but it’s not enough. Not enough when you curl them against your gummy walls. Not enough when you drag them in and out, letting your juices drip down and drench your bedsheets.
But still, Jungkook is watching you touch yourself. And it does something to you. It really does.
“So fucking pretty,” he pants. “God I wish I was there. I want to touch you so bad.”
You imagine how it’d feel—his hands on your body, his nose on your clit, tongue sliding through your folds.
“Yeah?” you reply, feeling breathless yourself, your ecstasy growing with every time you jam your fingers into your throbbing cunt. “What would you do if you were here?”
“I’d fucking ruin you.” He grits his teeth. “I’d suck the life out of those perfect little tits of yours and use my fingers to make you cry for me.”
With three fingers inside now, you curl them against your throbbing walls, arching your back when the pleasure it brings has you quivering. He continues.
“You’d beg me to make you cum. But before you can, I’ll stop, and then I’ll slap you in the fucking face when you complain about it.”
You think of Jungkook slapping you—stinging and leaving a mark—then cupping your face with those huge, warm hands, gently wiping away your tears and calling you a princess. Telling you that you did so good after mercilessly denying you an orgasm.
“And you’ll like it.”
You hate that he’s right.
“Then I’ll make you cry and slobber all over my dick,” he grunts, picking up the pace.
Holy shit. You can feel your pulse in every fiber of your being, thumb rolling at your clit as you fuck yourself silly with your fingers.
“And after that I’ll fuck you all night until you can’t even remember your own name.”
Holy fucking shit. Your back arches, your skin crawls—you’re already embarrassingly close.
He’s fucking his fist, wet sounds echoing through his bathroom to your speakers. His eyes screw shut for a short moment before he glares at you.
“Don’t you dare think about finishing right now,” he snaps. “You’ll come when I tell you to.”
You all but whimper in response, forcing yourself to slow down. Body twitching all over, you will yourself to stop, pulling your soaked fingers out of your sopping cunt, panting hard.
He spits in his hand one last time, using it to give himself a few more pumps before coming to a halt as well.
A breathless chuckle. His face is flushed, a thin sheen of sweat all over. “I think you earned your surprise, princess.”
Still catching your breath, you watch curiously as he grabs something from behind the camera.
It’s a marker. A permanent black marker. Must’ve been what he went to get earlier in the call.
A cocky smirk dances on his face as he unscrews the cap. Nothing prepares you for what he does next.
He drags the tip of the marker across his pelvis, ink flooding his smooth, pale skin, slowly weaving through his happy trail.
It spells out… your name.
Messy. Crooked. But yours. He’s written your name on his body.
“You think I do this for every client?”
Oh fuck this shit. His voice is rough and needy, maybe a little bit angry, but it’s everything that’s ever been in your wet dreams. You might actually lose it.
Your thighs squeeze involuntarily—which he notices right away—and your pussy clenches, desperate to be filled up with something.
“Jungkook,” you exhale, “You’re… insane.”
“You drive me insane, princess.” He chucks the marker away, returning his hold on his shaft. “Now sit on that shit for me and imagine you’re riding my cock.”
How this man has managed to make you so horny through a fucking phone screen needs to be studied.
The purple dildo seemed intimidating moments before, but now you’re not even sure if it’ll be enough. You lift up your hips and position the head to your entrance, sighing as you sink down on it slowly.
You’re so fucking wet that you manage to take all of it in practically one go.
Eyes closed, you imagine that the bumps on the dildo are Jungkook’s veins. The mattress you steady yourself on is his sturdy chest. The ticklish bedsheet that meets your pelvis is his.
“Shit,” he grunts under his breath, “You’d take me so fucking well, princess. Fuck—” he grips his length harder, “—wish that were me. So fucking bad.”
“Me too,” you mewl. “I want your cock, Jungkook.”
“Yeah?” Sticky sounds from your speaker. He’s getting impatient, too. “What do you want to do with my cock?”
“I want it inside me.” You start moving up and down, letting the dildo ease your walls from that beautifully stretched-out sensation, only to sink back down a moment later and nearly break yourself in half. “Wanna ride you all night.”
He groans, pupils blown out. “So fucking hot. God, I want you so bad.”
As you repeatedly ram yourself into the dildo, you force yourself to open your eyes and watch the screen.
Low angle. Clenched abs. Huge fucking dick all covered with his spit. Your name on his pelvis in that messy black ink, like a declaration that he’s yours.
Yours. That gets your heart racing.
His eyes are trained on you: the way your tits bounce with every rise and fall, the way the sheets are soaked underneath you, and the way your face contorts with every high-pitched whimper.
“Jungkook,” you whine softly, “I’m really close.”
You rub frantic circles on your spasming bundle of nerves as you bounce up and down, moans and whimpers spilling out of you as you chase your high. A coil of tension tightens at the pit of your stomach. You don’t think you can hold it in much longer.
“Shit, me too,” he whispers, out of breath. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s heaving—chest quivering like he’s struggling to hold it together. “Let go for me, princess.”
And you do.
White. Hot. Blinding. Loud. Even you are impressed by your pipes.
Your orgasm comes faster than expected, as if his permission was the final ingredient you needed to let go. You want to hate how well your body responds to him, but you don’t.
Soon, he too spills out right toward the camera, and you see white ropes dribble down his skin as he lets out several harsh grunts. The ink on his pelvis gets partially splattered with some of his semen—droplets decorating your name.
When you finally slow down and come to a stop, it takes all of your energy to lift yourself off the dildo. It’s a while before you figure out how to breathe normally again.
Your eyes meet.
Well. He definitely looks like he just had sex, and God, sex looks good on him—hair all tossed up and skin glowing. You’re a clammy mess as well, with sweat all over, your hair sticking to your face, and juices drenching your bedsheets.
Conclusion: he’s a wreck, and so are you.
He laughs first, delicate. You follow shortly.
“So…” you trail off, “I take it that you like the show?”
“Something like that,” he chuckles, grabbing some tissues to clean up. “This enough for a raving review?”
He holds the camera over his cock, letting you see the mess you made.
It’s… everywhere. Dripping down his length to his balls, splattered all over his sink and floor, droplets scattered along his pelvis. You gulp.
He starts wiping himself, muttering when he almost uses up the entire roll of toilet paper, “You goddamn witch.”
You giggle, satisfied, also taking the liberty to clean yourself up with a nearby towel, slipping your Brandy Melville shorts back on.
A comfortable silence.
There’s a spare hoodie on the floor, which you quickly tug on for warmth. The purple dildo is tossed into your bathroom sink, which you tell yourself you’ll clean later.
When you return to the phone, you find that Jungkook has taken you to what seems to be his bedroom.
He’s lying down, snuggled in the covers all cutely as if moments before he wasn’t watching you fuck yourself stupid.
“Hi.”
Oh, so this motherfucker can be cute, too?
You roll your eyes and put your phone on the bedside table. “So this call really never ends?”
“Nope. I mean, it’s not supposed to, but I’ve never really tested it, either.”
“Has no one else ever used it?” you ask, settling into your bed.
“Oh yeah, one time.” He rolls onto his back and starts chuckling to himself. “This poor old lady thought she was on an app that would connect her with her old boyfriends. I had a hard time explaining things over text so I asked her to say her safeword so I could explain over call instead.”
“No way,” you laugh, “Did she take it well?”
“She was sweet about it, yeah,” he confirms, laughing himself. “She started telling me about all her past boyfriends and everything, actually. Fun day.”
You reply with some quirky comment about how older people never really get embarrassed about anything. He agrees, sharing stories of older clients being completely unashamed of their desires and younger clients always being a little hesitant at first.
Somehow, the conversation shifts to discussing sweet old ladies you’ve encountered in your lifetime—like the woman who helped him tie a tie for his first job interview, or your favorite teacher in primary school. That leads to you discussing your kindergarten teacher job hunt and your cafe side hustle.
This is how an hour goes by, just talking. Really talking.
He shares his useless college days where he studied computer science. You tell him about how education majors actually have hard classes. He laughs at your jokes and you can’t help but find him incredibly charming as he rolls around in bed with that fluffy hair and dangerous smile.
His bedding is all white like yours, and his room is similarly minimalistic, with light-colored curtains and little to no decor. For a moment, you imagine that his image on the screen can melt into reality.
You imagine him lying next to you, telling funny stories and smelling of some manly scent. Your head would lay on his chest, his arm wrapped around you. You’d laugh into his neck and he’d chuckle into the top of your head, pulling you closer. Holding you tight.
Even though you know it’s a fantasy, you can’t help but entertain it.
“So how’s the bar thing going?” you ask, since you realized that you’ve been yapping about your career prospects for a while now.
“Pretty good,” he responds. “We’re set to open in a month, I think? The place is coming together real nice, now that it’s been constructed and all the contracts and boring stuff has been taken care of.”
“That’s so cool,” you say, and you mean it. “Why a bar?”
He shrugs. “Friends wanted to do it and I was like, why the hell not. I hated my tech job anyway. So I quit and picked up this Boyfriend Hotline thing to do in the meantime since it’s pretty flexible and makes good money.”
“Is that the only reason? Or were you also just enjoying the female attention?” You mean to sound teasing and curious, but it comes out a bit more accusatory than you’d like. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Oh come on,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I just happen to be good at it. Not my fault.”
“Sure, whatever,” you grumble, unimpressed.
He pauses for a second, shakes his head, and asks, “What about you?”
“Hm?”
“Getting on Boyfriend Hotline,” he supplies. “We haven’t talked about it too much, but you’re here after a breakup right?” he asks tentatively. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. But I’m just letting you know that I have two ears and they’re great at their job.”
“You can just say that you’re a good listener, you know,” you snicker.
“I like to be poetic.” His tone is lighthearted, but there’s an underlying curiosity—like he actually cares about your answer.
You decide to tell him.
“Honestly?” you sigh. “My ex and I always had trouble in the… intimacy department. I always thought I was more freaked out than him—like, I’d ask him to call me a slut and he’d go pale—but I found him kind of cute for that so I just let myself be vanilla for him,” you explained. “But then he went and cheated on me, as you know, and it was with some pretty frilly pink petite mousey bitch who—”
He snorts. You glare.
“I’m sorry—it’s just the way that you described her—”
“What’s so funny about that?” you pout.
“Nothing,” he says, swallowing back a laugh. He exhales, calming down. “Nothing,” he repeats, softer this time. “Sounds like a bitch.”
You chuckle, amused at how he immediately takes your side.
“She’s… alright,” you finally say. “It’s just that—” you stop yourself, sighing in frustration, “—she’s like the mirror version of myself, but better.”
“What do you mean?” he tilts his head.
“Well, to start, she’s also studying education,” you say. “She’s my age, has a similar sense of style, and… she’s really cute. She wears dresses and always has her hair done in some effortless updo. She speaks really softly and covers her mouth when she laughs. She doesn’t curse and always has a first-aid kit in her bag. She’s just that type of girl, you know?”
In the silence that follows, you think about Mina.
Everyone teased that you guys could practically be sisters with how you were both so soft and sweet. But you knew that you were always just a little bit more rough around the edges. A little more rowdy. You laughed louder. Cussed more.
Finally, Jungkook says something.
“But how does that make her better?”
You freeze for a moment, unsure of your answer. “Well… I guess people always said we were similar, but it was kind of an unspoken agreement that between the two of us, she was way more suited for teaching kindergarten. They’d say she was born for the job, since she was so naturally sweet and gentle and all.” You laugh dryly. “It just sucks that I wasn’t only competing with her for job positions, but also for my boyfriend, too.”
Because frankly, always being compared to her never made you insecure until your last boyfriend, Jackson Wang.
He’d only shower you with love when you were… more like her. When you were quiet and submissive and just a cute little thing. He didn’t like it when you talked back. He didn’t like it when you wanted to be called obscene things and actually had an opinion in the bedroom.
So maybe it was no surprise when you walked into his apartment to find condom wrappers and underwear that definitely wasn’t yours on the floor, looking up to find him tangled with her in his bedsheets.
It was so cliche, you almost laughed—and you kind of wished that you did—instead of losing your shit and throwing things at them before storming off. That only made it more cliche. Didn’t make it hurt less.
“Okay, listen.” He props himself up on his elbows, clearing his throat like he’s about to give a life-changing speech. “I, for one, really like your laugh. I like girls who cuss. I like it when you tell me what you like and when you challenge me.”
His gaze is insistent. You try not to falter under it.
“It honestly seems like he’s just some freak who only likes girls when they’re submissive.” You chuckle a little bit at that. He continues passionately. “He didn’t leave you because she was ‘better’ or whatever—that’s bogus. He left you because he’s an asshole who can’t handle a real, independent woman.”
At this point, it’s getting harder to control your face. You’re biting your lip, trying to hold back tears. He’s saying all the right things—and you’d be annoyed at how good he is at this if it wasn’t tugging at your heartstrings.
He pauses, eyes flickering to the side with slight hesitance.
“But… I can,” he declares. “And as someone who literally talks to women for a living, I’ll go ahead and say that if all of them were lined up against a wall and I could only choose one to hang out with… I’d choose you.”
The bold statement lingers. You try not to break. Just who is he? How can he make you feel this way after having known you for only a little while?
“Thanks,” you finally reply, voice quiet.
He gives a small smile, eyes unwavering and kind.
“You’re welcome.”
Something has changed. You’re not sure what it is exactly, but you feel it and so does he. There’s tension in the air, tight with a tacit agreement that taking this any further would be really crossing the line.
You hear a buzz from his phone. His face comes closer to the screen as he checks the notification.
“Hey, uh, I think I might have to go now,” he says, a little bit awkward.
“Okay.” You nod, humming lightly. “Your friend?”
He shakes his head. Exhales nervously. “No it’s… it’s actually another client.”
“Oh.” Your stomach drops.
He looks away. “The safeword thing takes a few hours to work, so I should probably take on a few clients while I can before I’m jobless for the next week,” he jokes, but it doesn’t elicit any laughter.
Right. He’s still being paid to be here. Even if you’re his favorite client—the best among dozens—you’re still a client. Just someone on his phone who he’s being paid to talk to.
He’s setting that boundary before you start getting any weird ideas.
“Okay,” you reply softly, straining a smile. “This was fun.”
“I should be back in a week,” he says slowly. “Will you request me later?”
There it is. The question. He really does just need you for the money.
“Maybe.”
He chuckles. “So ambiguous.”
You try to laugh, but it’s painful. He notices.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I don’t have to accept every client’s—”
“No,” you cut him off more harshly than you want to. “Go ahead. I’ve already taken up enough of your time, and I don’t want you to be broke.”
You intend to be playful; instead it sounds mean.
“Alright.” He nods slowly, still not entirely convinced. Your heart pinches. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’m sure.”
You give an encouraging smile, acting like your whole body didn’t go cold under your covers—like this entire session was purely transactional. Acting like now that you’ve gotten your needs fulfilled, you’re entirely happy to let him go.
“Okay,” he finally relents, eyes watching you carefully. “I’ll go.”
You start waving at the camera, giving a soft smile.
“Bye Jungkook,” you say.
He scooches closer, hand coming up to the phone.
“Alright,” his low voice rumbles. “Goodnight, princess.”
The term of endearment hangs in the air long after he ends the call and your phone screen goes black. You stare at your face in the reflection, unmoving as you gather yourself.
You need to delete the app.
This can’t be good for you—the butterflies, the laughter, and the inevitable heartache that follows.
You don’t think you can go through this again. With every session, you’ll just keep growing more attached, and you’ll keep getting hurt. It’ll be a vicious cycle that’ll get harder and harder to escape if you let it go for much longer.
With newfound clarity, you sit up straight and grab your phone, fingers trembling as you enter the app for what you hope will be the last time. You should do it while you have the courage.
But before you can press “delete account,” your deranged mind entertains an evil thought.
If he can go play around with other clients, what’s stopping you from requesting sessions with another service provider?
Maybe it’ll give you clarity. It’ll act as a benchmark for your interactions with him. You’ll know what’s normal and what’s not. You’ll learn if everyone is as charming as he is, or if he’s really treating you differently.
You rationalize why it’d be good for you, but deep down in your heart, a part of you hopes that he’ll find out about you being with another service provider and he’ll feel exactly what you’re feeling right now: jealousy.
You’re not even sure if that’s even possible. But the thought strikes you nonetheless, cementing itself in your mind as the underlying objective behind your next move.
Maybe in a few days, when you’re horny and curious enough, you’ll try it out. Jungkook will be unavailable anyways, right?
You aren’t doing anything wrong, you convince yourself. This is totally fine.
You remove him so that he’s no longer your primary service provider. Click onto the tab where you can look at others. Swallow your guilt with your saliva.
A few minutes go by as you scroll through profiles. A few catch your eye, a few don’t. You read each person’s blurb, look at their faces, and read their reviews.
Then finally, you select one.
a/n: *evil laughter* did you guys enjoy!?! let me know pleaseeee i wanna know all your thoughts so bad hehehehe. i went back and forth on this chapter a LOT! i rewrote it like 3 times JFKDSJFLS there was a version with no smut where they just talk actually, but then it got boring because i couldn't describe shit since they are just ON THE PHONE? but im very happy with how the smutty version turned out so! yeah. anyways i dont want to spoil things too much but you can expect smau + written chapters from now on since we are well into the plot now hehe. that also means that updates will be unfortunately slower, but im going to work very hard so that they are worth the wait! thank u sm for being here lovelies!
taglist: comment or reblog with a note to be added!
