#yeonjun

[m0ney]

‧₊˚𖦹𓂃౨ৎ˚

[junsfriend]

on video — cyj

SUMMARY: Being trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful husband has led you to seek validation from others through your scandalous online persona. When an alluringly masked camboy keeps hitting your DMs, you can’t deny the undoubtable attraction you feel for a man you can’t have. And when a new neighbor sporting the same red hair and mole under his eyes moves into the apartment next door, you know you’re screwed. Is it really being unfaithful if your husband’s doing it too?

PAIRING: camboy!yeonjun x housewife!reader

WORD COUNT: 13k

GENRE: smut, angst

WARNINGS: nsfw, mdni, porn with plot, cursing, INFIDELITY, condom use, dacryphilia, mentions of financial abuse/lovebombing from the reader's husband, forced marriage, manipulation, dirty talk, soft(?) dom!yeonjun, big dick, overuse of the term ‘baby’, squirting, masturbation, filming during sex, slightly dubious consent, breeding kink (kind of), if i’m missing stuff feel free to lmk

A/N: Here is my magnum opus. Please follow if you enjoy reading and lmk what you think! I have some things cooking in my noggin for future stories… Anyway, enjoy! (I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING!!!)

This is the last time, you swear to yourself, that you would willingly participate in a conversation with the nosy middle-aged aunties in your apartment complex. 

"You know you're running out of time," Mrs. Lee lectures. "It'll be good for you to have kids soon while you still have your youth."

Mrs. Park nods knowingly next to her as if her friend spouted something incredibly profound. What was supposed to be a quiet walk to retrieve a package from the mail room had once again turned into a conversation impossible to wiggle out of. 

"It's not our place to pry," Mrs. Park chimes in. "Your husband would probably want you to have one sooner rather than later, right? Hell! At his age, he’s old enough to even be your father-"

Mrs. Lee punches her blabbering friend's shoulder lightly in an attempt to shut her up. Mrs. Park rubs her shoulder, flustered but taking the hint.

"Thank you for your wonderful advice," you muster a polite smile, "If that’s all, I'll be heading back up. I hope you two have a good day."

You walk past the two with a small package in hand, turning the corner of the hallway. Being curt with them would be the only way to escape their intrusive grasp. However, you find yourself slowing your steps when you hear bits and pieces of their lowered voices.

"You!" Mrs. Lee grumbles at Mrs. Park. “Why would you mention such a sensitive topic to that poor girl?! I’m sure she sees how big their age gap is! There's no need to bring it up.”

Mrs. Park grumbles.

“That’s the least of her worries when it comes to that husband of hers,” Mrs. Park scoffs. “You know, I heard from the security guy that he’s been coming home late every night, all disheveled with bruises all over his neck..."

You hear Mrs. Lee gasp, and you can’t help it when your grip on the cardboard box tightens.

"No wonder she's looked so out of sorts these days,” Mrs. Lee sighs. “She used to have such a bright personality. Much prettier back then, too…"

You grind your teeth, tempted to walk back and ask the two to continue their conversation in front of you instead. You save yourself the embarrassment and walk towards the elevator. 

It’s not like anything they said was a lie. There was no use in getting angry about the truth being spoken out loud; you convince yourself.

You sit at the dinner table, watching as the clock strikes midnight. He probably won't come home tonight either, you think to yourself. 

Dinner is laid out so meticulously, two perfectly cooked salmon glistening with soy sauce glaze at the center of the table. All done by you to appease a husband who doesn’t even want to be home most of the time.

It’s the third night in a row he's been staying over at his lover's place. 

Married life with Kwon Sehoon, a man you met through your parents, was ultimately a passionless one.

Straddled in debt from starting a failed business, your parents had married you off to an older man who was willing to pay a pretty penny for a young and beautiful wife. 

You remember that day clearly, with you coming back home from an evening lecture, standing in front of your kneeling parents who begged you to save them from their financial ruin. The parents you once thought were invincible to pain and suffering were groveling right in front of you. So afraid of what the loan sharks would do to your parents, of having to pick up the pieces of their debt if they up and disappeared, you agreed. It seemed like the easy way out. 

Sehoon seemed nice enough during your first meeting. He told you almost immediately how he didn’t like women his age.

"Younger women don't drain you like the older ones do," he once said.

You remember feeling flattered at first, not knowing the gravity of his words until you really got to know him.

You got married shortly after completing your degree, and at first, Sehoon was absolutely fixated on you. He doted on you like a pet, showering you with gifts and compliments. He lived quite modestly for someone with an affluent job. His apartment, the one you live in now, was practically empty before you came into his life. He gave you free rein to decorate as you pleased and insisted that you buy anything you wanted with his card. 

He asked very little of you in return; all you had to do was be a good wife for him. And as you sit by yourself tonight, pondering his return, you feel like you failed even in that regard. Four years into marriage, you noticed the signs of waning interest trickle into everyday life.

His initial gestures of kindness led you to feel something akin to love towards him, just thankful that he didn’t treat your parents badly, like the loan sharks did. Though now that you look back, your affection seemed more akin to Stockholm Syndrome. 

Your parents had promised him a warm and caring stay-at-home wife. At the ripe age of 45, he expected a lot from you– more than you could possibly give in your early 20s. Inexperienced nights of lackluster sex would drive him into fits of annoyance, giving you days of silent treatment when you would reject his advances to explore unsavory kinks in the bedroom. 

You always tried to pick up the pieces, changing parts of yourself to match his ideal type of girl. Pleasant, obedient, and doll-like. It never worked.

He started accusing you of using him if you bought too many pastries from a bakery, immediately regulating your credit card use to groceries and household items. He started murmuring insults in hushed tones, knowing full well you could hear him. 

Everything you thought he was crumbled within the first year of marriage. Sehoon morphed into someone unrecognizable. You never fathomed being in a situation where a man who wanted you so badly now wanted to act like you never existed. You never thought he could betray you after all the hoops he went through to have your hand in marriage.

You remember that night, just a year ago, when you heard his quiet voice in the bathroom. He was talking to someone over the phone. You couldn’t help but listen by the door that was slightly left ajar. Sehoon had been in such a bad mood at the time, lashing out at you at every chance he got.

"I miss you," he sighs lovingly, and you feel your heart sink. You hadn't heard him talk in such a gentle tone in years. "She's such a prude, you know? Always tenses up when I touch her. She can't even get me hard. I wish I were with you instead."

He cackled as the pit that you've always felt in your stomach when you were with him expanded. Though the affection you had for him had already waned by then, your husband's infidelity still felt like a shot to the chest. You wasted so many years trying to be who he wanted you to be, only for him to toss you to the side like an old toy with no batteries.

You were ashamed to say you followed him once during his escapades, watching across a dark alleyway as he entered a seedy hotel with a young beauty in his arms. Though she looked nothing like you, she reminded you of yourself. She seemed so nervous, so eager to please that treacherous man. All you could feel was pity, unsure if it was more for her or for yourself.

"You know I can't leave her right now, my love," he hummed into the phone, and you couldn’t help but gag. "I took her parents' debt in my name. I'm still paying it off. I feel nothing with her, I promise! Bitch can't even give a proper blowjob. She’s nothing like you."

Disgust seeped through your whole body that night. You couldn't even bear to face him in the bed you shared, tears welling up at the thought of having to be with him for any longer.

Your parents pleaded with you to hold out until the debt was fully repaid, until he no longer had control over them. Sehoon, ever the calculating person he was, wrote a clause stating that if you were to ever ask for a divorce, you would have to pay him back the remaining debt he still owed the loan sharks.

With no job and no escape plan, you had fallen into his trap. Sehoon would be the one to decide whether he ever wanted to set you free.

You wait another 30 minutes, packing the leftovers on the table into the refrigerator when he doesn't show up. Your duties as a wife did not and could not stop even after finding out about his affair. Sehoon reported every mistake and any sign of resistance to your parents. He knew the power they held over you, about your unwavering need to appease them. They scold you over the stories they hear from him, and you attempt to right every wrong to mold yourself into what he wanted.

But he doesn't know one thing, you think to yourself as you head to your shared bedroom. You lock the door, just in case.

You pull your phone out and open Twitter without hesitation. Typing away, you draft up a post that reads like every other one of your complaints about your mundane life.

housewifeblues: husband left me home alone again… how can you leave your wife like this, feeling so lonely?

But you know that’s not why 2.4k people follow you. 

You peel your shirt off your body, unclasping your bra and positioning yourself under the dim lights of the city outside your window. You let out a deep breath, psyching yourself up for what you’re about to do. You push out and accentuate the curves of your breasts as you arch your back forward.

You snap a few pictures with only the lower half of your face and naked chest visible.

You bite your nails as you hesitate to hit the ‘post’ button. You do it after a few seconds of indecisiveness. It’s not like it’s your first post, so why do you still feel so nervous? To Sehoon, you may be undesirable, but your online persona was worshipped like a goddess by so many.

The attention and validation of those who lusted after you on the internet filled in the hole of loneliness that Sehoon had opened in you. 

The noticeable birthmark above your breasts was a point of self-consciousness since the start of your marriage. Sehoon always pushed you to have it removed, stating it was unsightly against your skin. But the thousands of followers who complimented it constantly led you to cancel that appointment. It gave you a sense of pride knowing that you could drown out your husband's harsh words with the positivity of your online fans.

Your followers enjoyed how openly you talked about your miserable marriage, your qualms about being a housewife, and your husband's infidelity. Your posts garnered traction from those who relate to your struggles and those who fetishize them. At some point, you stopped caring what kind of person interacted with your posts. You just wanted to bask in some flattering words for once.

The likes had started to roll in, but at an abnormal pace. Since when was your engagement this high? You see in your notification tab that someone named "yawnszn" retweeted your post almost immediately after you uploaded it.

yawnszn: if he doesn’t want you, i volunteer as tribute

You catch yourself chuckling. Who was this?

Clicking on his profile picture, a page pops up of a bright red-haired man with a mole underneath his right eye, wearing a black face mask. 300k followers? And he was reposting your content? You rub your eyes to check if you were seeing correctly.

Intrigued, you scroll down and you almost drop your phone from the shocking imagery that fills your screen. The pinned video on his feed was of him, stroking his perfectly curved length with such focused concentration. He was thick beyond comprehension, veins so beautifully etched on the underside of his heaviness.

You hesitantly click on the video, cheeks warming at the lewd sounds that start to echo through the bedroom.

"You like that?" he would say in between grunts of pleasure. "I bet you do, huh? Bet you wanna make a mess all over me."

His brows were furrowed, glistening chest heaving as he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into his large hands. If only you could see him with that stupid mask off.

The stranger was methodical with his strokes, slowing his relentless pace when he teetered too close to his high. He was edging himself into a stronger and more drawn-out climax, rolling his head back onto his chair as Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 

Though his eyes were covered by wispy bangs, you could feel their intensity through the screen. The way he squinted and scrunched his nose in pleasure, staring daggers into the camera. He could tell you to lick the bottom of his shoe and you would probably do it. 

Wait–what?

You exit the app in a hurry, attempting to calm yourself. You were having very bad thoughts, ones you never even felt with your own husband. It wasn't right to think these things about another man, you tell yourself, as your thighs clench together from where you sat on your bed.

When Sehoon surprisingly comes home at 4 a.m., with his back turned towards you on the bed, you pretend to sleep. You replay the video of yawnszn in your head over and over again. You can't help but feel pathetic to feel so hot and heavy over a man retweeting you while your husband still reeks of another woman.

As Sehoon snores loudly next to you, you find yourself typing another post.

housewifeblues: he’s home with hickies on his neck... why does he even bother coming back?

It’s almost instant, the masked man’s reply. You bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a gasp.

yawnszn: let’s make it even. i can leave some on your pretty neck, too

You suppress a giggle that threatens to leave your lips. You stare back and forth between Sehoon’s hunched back and your phone to this masked man’s profile. There’s no harm in flattery, is there?

It's like an addiction, scrolling through his page on your burner account. You don't even follow him back on your main, but you can't help but refresh for more content. He posts daily, with livestreams every Friday. You tune in when Sehoon isn't around, which is almost all the time. Guilt is etched into your heart whenever you see his notifications, despite your husband's own infidelity not affecting his own psyche.

"Such fucking sluts," Yeonjun would scold his chat with his red hair pushed seductively away from his forehead. He plunges a plush fleshlight roughly down his pulsing cock. "You wish this were you riding me, huh? Too fucking bad."

The urge to touch yourself worsens after each livestream, but you hold out. You couldn't let yourself stoop to Sehoon's level. It’s not like you enjoyed posting photos with racy captions, you promise! It’s just a hobby, one that elicited flirty responses from a man you were very attracted to. You admit, maybe some photos were posted for him. He just didn’t know it.

During a livestream, you remember him talking about his love for doggy style. The next day, you miraculously posted a photo of your face planted on a pillow with your underwear-clad body arched eagerly with your ass in the sky.

housewifeblues: never been fucked in this position.

You swear it isn’t just for him specifically, even when you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face at his comment the next day.

yawnszn: i think you need to take the picture at a better angle from behind… need help with that?

Even as you squirm in the shower and in the bed at the thought of a red-haired man plowing into you, you vowed to not be tempted to interact with him on your main account.

You were better than that, you convinced yourself. Better than Sehoon.

You're in the bed this time, lacy pink bra in full display on your phone’s camera. Your nipples are peaking through, and you lay your hand atop your chest to emphasize their shape. Tonight, you wanted to tease your followers. 

yawnszn’s constant interactions with your page fueled you to post more frequently. You found different angles and poses, anything that would let you stay relevant (and always on yawnszn’s feed). At some point, you noticed his likes and retweets were filled with only you.

It made your heart flutter at the thought of him being just as obsessed with you as you were with him.

And even better, it was a Friday. You chuckle to yourself as you lie on your stomach, clicking on his profile like clockwork. His room looked emptier than usual, with boxes piled up in the corner. The red-haired man's toned body finally comes into frame, gleaming with sweat from the warm lighting of his floor lamp. He looked like he had just finished working out.

"Wow," he stares at the chat, voice muffled by his mask. "Must be real fucking horny to join so early."

You let out a chuckle. It felt like he was actually talking to you.

"Some new names in here," he says as he sinks into his chair, carefully unzipping his jeans. His abdomen glistened with sweat, white briefs peeking through his unzipped jeans. He reads comment after comment, palming his bulge almost mindlessly.

You groan in frustration, wishing he were quicker at taking his stupid pants off. You feel almost compelled to comment just that– and so you did.

You: you’re teasing us…

His eyes scan the screen, and you can tell he seems genuinely shocked by something despite his masked expression.

"Well, look who it is," he laughs darkly as he starts to grip his clothed member more roughly. "Thanks for tuning in, housewifeblues. I didn't take you for such an eager viewer, pretty girl."

Your blood turns cold. Did he just say your username? But that couldn't be possible. You were on your burner account. Unless-

You scroll up to your comment, clearly showing the profile picture of half of your face and cleavage as the commenter. Burying your face into your pillow to let out a scream of sheer humiliation, you kick your feet in the air.

This can't be real.

"I'm flattered," yawnszn continues, not knowing the stages of grief you were going through. "I've been thinking about those pretty tits all day."

He pulls out his throbbing cock. It looked painful, you thought. His fingers traced over his angry tip, red and beating like it ached for release. 

You swallow, mouth watering at the view. His head was leaned back now, stroking himself languidly as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip. You clench your pillow.

"Why don't we have some fun together, hm?" he asks teasingly, his hand pumping with half the force he usually uses. "I bet I could make you feel so good, baby. We can make your useless ass husband watch if you want."

You let out a small whimper, scanning over the comments from equally shocked viewers.

"god I'd pay good money to see you two fuck"

"me next?"

“is this ur kink?”

"stop talking about another bitch!!!"

He chuckles, reading the last one.

"My jealous babies," he teases, tugging his hair back with his unoccupied hand and showing his beautiful forehead. "There’s plenty of me to go around."

A wave of possessiveness washes over you, suddenly conscious that this wasn't just for you. He was selling his fantasy to all the viewers who watched him. There was no affection there, only the delusions of your touch-starved self. You feel a sudden pang of guilt in your chest. You wanted this stranger so badly, but you couldn’t have him. You're married. And it wasn't up to anyone else but Sehoon to change that.

"I'd fuck you on every surface I could get you on," he sighs out so sensually, pumping himself in a steady rhythm. "Have you begging for my cock until you're dependent on it."

Though tears well in your eyes from the mix of humiliation and regret, you rest your head on the pillow and grind against your mattress to the sounds of his arousal. 

"And you'd thank me each time I give it to you, wouldn’t you?" he laughs dryly. "Because that's all you want, right? Want me deep down in your throat. In your pussy. You'd even let me fuck your ass too, huh, baby?"

The comments flood in with crazed sentences, and you are no better.

You whimper at the vulgarity of his words, back arched against absolutely nothing. You wish he were positioned right behind you with those long fingers of his curling inside your deepest parts, coaxing your climax out of you. You’re almost tempted to slide a hand up your shirt, until you hear a familiar jangling of keys.

Quickly standing up, you exit that God forsaken app. Smoothing out your clothes, you prepare yourself to be ignored by Sehoon once again. He moves past you to walk to the bathroom, no greeting exchanged whatsoever. Your cheeks warm with frustration.

"Dinner is in the fridge," you say plainly. You sit back down on the bed, grabbing the phone to make sure his livestream was no longer playing. A few minutes pass, and you mindlessly stare at the wall as you hear your husband grumbling and mumbling in the bathroom. A notification pops up on your phone.

yawnszn has sent you a private message.

You feel the acceleration of your pulse almost immediately and check it against your better judgment.

yawnszn: come back, baby. i wasn't done with you yet. was putting on that show just for you ;)

You cover your mouth to stifle a scream, but immediately straighten your posture and harden your expression when Sehoon comes out of the bathroom. He reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap motel sheets. 

“Would it hurt you to smile once in a while?" he sneers. “Look so fucking creepy all the time.”

You muster up a small grin, one that doesn't meet the eyes. All he does is sigh. 

"Can't even follow simple instructions," he grumbles, slamming the door behind him. "Just leeching off me like a fucking parasite..."

You purse your lips. Sehoon always knew which words would hurt you the most, like he practices them in the mirror before he throws them at you. At one point, you wanted to be good for him. Wanted to show him that you could be the respectable wife he always wanted you to be. 

So, how the hell did it end up like this?

What were you doing, squealing like a teenage girl over some camboy on the internet? You shake your head rapidly, quickly deleting the message yawnszn sent. You didn't even get a chance to put your phone back on your lap when you heard another buzz. 

It's him again.

yawnszn: i wanna show you how a real man could make you feel. won't you let me?

And though you wanted nothing more, you leave him on ‘seen’.

An entire week goes by, and it was another Friday you couldn’t help but anticipate. You tried to stop viewing his page, you really did. But when the nights got cold and loneliness seeped through your bones, you couldn’t help but reread the messages yawnszn would boldly send you.

Today, you vowed not to think about that red-haired devil.

As you walk past the boxes stacked in the hallway, you make your way towards the unit right next to your apartment with Sehoon. A new neighbor was moving in. From sandwiches to tea cookies, you had spent your entire day making treats for the new addition to the ever-so-nosy apartment complex. With a cautious knock at the door, you stand in front of the unit with a basket of your handmade foods. 

Sehoon had conditioned you to be a good neighbor, never wanting Mr. Do's family on the second floor to look better than him after they gave everyone in the building a bottle of whiskey for New Year's. He forced you to greet new tenants and make cards for everyone's birthdays so he could soak in the compliments of having such a loving and kind wife. Meanwhile, he never even bothered to learn the names of the people on your floor.

He always assumed with your "immense amount of free time as a housewife" that all of these responsibilities would be handled by you. You roll your eyes at the thought. He couldn't even bother to take showers to get rid of his mistress's rancid scent. Did he really think people in this apartment thought he was a good husband?

You almost knock again until your new neighbor finally opens the door. He's tall, wearing a tight-fitting black hoodie. It wasn't zipped up fully, and his naked chest was slightly visible underneath. Was he wearing nothing under? 

You look up and tense at the sight. Red hair and black face mask. Mole under his right eye. You blink rapidly, almost as if his face would morph if you did it fast enough. It can't be… But who else could fit his description much better? This had to be yawnszn.

“Hello?” he greets, confused. His voice sends shivers down your spine. Was it wrong to assume that every strikingly red-haired man with fierce eyes and wearing a mask was your online crush? 

"Hi," you say, stomping down the stutter that wanted to come out. "I'm [Y/N], your next-door neighbor. My husband and I wanted to welcome you to the building with some treats."

He looks past the top of your head as if searching for someone behind you. 

"Where is this husband?" he asks in a teasing manner. You bite back a frown. Wasn't it a little inappropriate to ask these things?

"He's at work," you say plainly. 

"I'll only give my thanks to you then," he replies, resting his body on the doorframe. You feel electricity course through your veins as he brushes your hand softly, taking the basket from your tightened grip.

"I would love to repay you," he says, leaning his head toward your flustered face. You shy away from his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable that you're wearing a V-neck shirt as he looks down at you. You sense a flash of emotion in his gaze, quickly replaced by a gentle stare.

Did he know it was you? 

No, that’s ridiculous, you thought to yourself. How could he even tell?

"No need," you reply, embarrassingly quickly as you take a step back. "We don't expect anything in return."

"I insist," he says slyly. "Once I'm all settled in, I'll come see you."

He looks around the hallway again before bringing his masked mouth to your ear.

“Hopefully, when he’s not home.”

You freeze at his words as he closes the door with a small wave and a mischievous glint in his eyes. As soon as you rush to your apartment, you cross-examine his profile picture with the memory you had of your neighbor’s features. He didn’t even tell you his name! You scream into your living room cushion. You shake your head. 

Nothing will come out of this, you try to convince yourself. He was just being friendly. 

You stand up, ready to busy yourself with chores around the house to distract yourself from the feeling of dread forming in the pit of your stomach. He said he was stopping by, and you couldn't tell whether the funny feeling in your stomach was butterflies or something far more sinister… You touch your ear from where you felt his warm breath. Perhaps desire?

Later that day, you wait anxiously for his stream to start. Your back was against the headboard of your bed, twiddling your fingers from anticipation. Triple-checking, you made sure you were on your burner account this time. You click the notification as soon as it comes, and his empty room comes into view.

You stiffen at the new format, not at all like his old set-up. In fact, the walls and floor were the exact same shade as your own room. You groan, looking at the wall that faced your new neighbor’s place. That guy was definitely yawnszn. 

His masked figure is already naked, save for the white towel draped around his waist and his signature black mask.

"Moved into my new place," he says to the chat. "Like my new room?"

He scans the comments and sighs in disappointment. 

"Did I scare my baby away?" Your eyes widen. Was he looking for your username?

You can tell he's pouting through the mask, and you can't help but smile. Fuck. Why was this man so irresistibly hot and annoyingly cute at the same time?

"I don’t wanna do solo streams anymore, guys," he whines, his bulge already evident through the thin towel. You wonder how he's able to get hard so quickly.

"Wanna show y'all a different side of me," he sighs, dropping his towel to reveal the growing heaviness underneath. "Show you I'm not just all talk."

You clench your thighs, tensing when his large palm finds his towering length. He was always so vocal during his sessions, and even now, as he has barely just started, he was a mumbling mess. He’s seated now, clenched eyes in full view as he strokes himself in drawn-out movements.

Your eyes widen. You can hear him, but not just on video. His sounds reverberated through the wall. It's like you’re in the room with him as he's hunched over, drowning in his own pleasure.

"Don't be jealous when I bring someone in, okay?" he teases the chat that’s filled with comments of disapproval. "Just think it's you that I'll be fucking. Imagine how I’d cum inside a real pussy. How I’d shove it all back in. Doesn’t that sound nice? Making that pussy full of me."

You bite your lip at the thought, clenching the sheets beneath you as you hear his dirty whispers from the wall. 

You didn’t want that, you thought to yourself darkly. You didn’t want to see him, moaning and talking so filthy like this, with anyone. You couldn’t bear it. You were already suffering at the thought of your husband fucking his much younger mistress, you couldn’t lose yawnszn too. He was the only sense of freedom you felt in your dull, repeating life.

As crazy as you felt, you sat up to press your ear against the wall to hear him better. Your fingers dangerously ghost over your pajama shorts.

"Wanna have sex so bad, baby," he whines out. "Won't you let me?"

You let out a squeak. You can't take your eyes off his perfectly sculpted body, nor could you take your ear off the wall that separated the two of you in real life. You feel like a sick, deranged pervert. Your twisted desires are egging you on as your hand trails down your stomach and into your underwear. Your fingers run up your slit, already so wet from just watching him.

"I'd have you on your fucking knees," he sighs out, letting out that grunting sound he does when he's nearing his climax. "Take you from behind. You'd have to beg me to get off of you. I'd be in that pussy every day, every fucking night."

Your eyes roll back at the thought. Your pace quickens with his, drawing rapid circles on your swollen bud. You're grinding down against your own fingers, searching for something that you knew only this intoxicating stranger could give you. In some way, the fact that you are masturbating next to your oppressive husband’s pillow made everything feel that much more erotic. He doesn’t need to know how another man makes you feel.

"Gonna cum," his nose scrunches. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

As white, hot liquid spurts out of his beautiful cock, you let out a silent scream as you come undone yourself. With your right hand sticky with your climax, you feel tears well up in your eyes. What the fuck were you doing?

The next day, you see your mysteriously masked neighbor in the halls. It was instinct to give a small smile, tensing as he approached your cowering figure.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks. You blink back your confusion as he gestures at your fistful of groceries. You completely forgot you were holding them the moment you saw him.

“N-no,” you reply a little too quickly. “I’m almost at my door.” 

He chuckles. He attempts to grab one of the heavy-looking ones from you, but you dodge him just in time. The red-haired man had no idea what you did last night because of him. You felt dirty just being in his presence.

“I’m happy to help, you know?” he insists. “You don’t have to carry that all by yourself.”

Your grip on the groceries tightens. In all the years you were married to Sehoon, he never offered to help you with anything once. If it had nothing to do with finances or working, the rest was handled by you. It was sad to feel so happy hearing such minuscule gestures of kindness come from your neighbor of all people.

“I’ll let you know if I ever need it,” you smile at him, genuinely. To your surprise, he ruffles you on the head affectionately. He leans down, his face at the same level as yours.

“I’m Yeonjun,” he whispers as if he were saying a deep, dark secret. “I forgot to tell you yesterday.”

His name. He finally told you his name. How beautiful it sounds on those unseen lips. 

His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you just want to lean in and kiss him through that stupid mask. But he stands up straight, towering over you once again.

“Don’t be a stranger, [Y/N],” he says teasingly, walking away with his hands shoved down his jean pockets. Your heart flutters, and your attempts to push down the butterflies in your stomach were thwarted once again.

It’s like you see him everywhere now. From the convenience store down the street to the garden rooftop of your apartment complex. Yeonjun seemed to permeate every part of your existence, offline and online. Though he was probably unaware of how often you were posting in your underwear just to get a flirtatious response from him in your comments, you swore he was flustering you on purpose.

The way he would casually help you out of carrying heavy packages from your hands when you’d see him in the apartment lobby, or how he would casually talk about missing “housewifeblues” at the start of each stream. He was driving you crazy.

You weren’t an idiot; you knew his intentions. And though you keep your interactions as polite as possible, you find out a little too much about the man you’ve been lusting over for the past few weeks. 

Yeonjun tells you he doesn’t have many friends. He moved back home recently after doing university abroad and working there for a bit. He’s close with his mother and talks to her over the phone every day. He volunteers at pet sanctuaries over the weekends and wants to get a cat of his own someday. But when you pry, asking him how he’s able to afford the high rent your husband was paying for this swanky apartment complex at such a young age, he avoids answering completely. Simply says “I work a remote job,” but you know better.  

You know how he posts on OnlyFans daily, subscriptions increasing after every sensual stream where he gets paid thousands a night to pleasure himself on camera.

It’s one of those days when you run into him in the hallway. You’re wearing a tank top and yoga pants, and you just finished an at-home workout routine while you waited for your laundry to finish drying. You were exiting your place to make a quick run to the grocery store to prepare dinner for the night. 

Yeonjun was walking back to his apartment, eyes scanning you as you gave him a weak greeting. 

“Heading out?” he asks in a low tone, hands in his pockets. You nod, growing nervous at his intense gaze. He’s eyeing you over now, and you don’t notice how he hyperfixates on a certain area of your chest.

“My husband wants me to cook pasta tonight, and I forgot some ingredients,” you lie through your teeth, always feeling an urge to mention Sehoon in Yeonjun’s presence. Like you had to remind yourself that you still have one.

“Can’t he pick them up for you?” he asks inquisitively. You let out a small laugh at the suggestion.

“Dinner should be done before a husband gets home from work,” you say, as if it were routine. It’s what your mom would tell you. It’s what Sehoon would tell you. So why did you feel so small when Yeonjun looked at you with such pity in his eyes?

“If I were him,” he steps forward, brushing a stray hair from your flushed face. “I wouldn’t let my pretty wife cook all by myself.”

Your breath hitches as he looks at you. What you would give to have him. What would you do to keep that same expression on your face at all times? It wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself, that you should be subjected to a life of dissatisfaction when the one who could cure it was so near. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks, the feeling of his hand still lingering by your ear.

“I always am,” you softly reply. And to that, he smiles.

You couldn’t look away, even as he walked away. 

“I’ll see you soon then.”

You hear the doorbell ring. Today was your deep cleaning day. You already washed the dishes, watered all the plants, and got dinner started. It was also the day after yesterday, which meant Yeonjun was coming over.

You open the door a little too eagerly. It was a little pathetic, you admit to yourself, how much you wanted to see him.

His livestream after your conversation yesterday was intense, more so than usual. He propped his phone on his bathroom counter, stroking himself in the shower. You searched for his moans in your walls, imagining his hands on you like they were just hours prior. You ached to hear him, addicted to the way he sounded since the last time you watched him live and heard him through the walls.

Shaking your head to prevent yourself from getting carried away by your thoughts, you finally open the door.

It was him, red hair and all.

"Hey," your masked neighbor greets you with a bag in his hand. "I brought some cake. I finally got around to finishing everything in the welcome basket. They were all so delicious, thank you."

"You shouldn't have," you say politely, holding back your giddiness. "My husband’s at work right now, but I'll save some for him later."

He holds the bag up to you, and you take it from him cautiously, careful not to touch him. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers quiver.

"Oh?" he looks past you at the empty apartment. "It's already dinner time, though?"

You smile sadly.

"He's not actually home that often," you say, trying to push down the bitterness in your voice. “He gets busy.”

You can't tell from his mask whether he feels sorry for you, but his eyes do seem rather intense.

"Shall we eat the cake together then?" he suggests. "I like sweet things."

Your heartbeat quickens. The only man who has ever set foot in your apartment was Sehoon and your father. It felt wrong to invite him in, but it felt even more wrong to say no to him. And so you take a step back as an invitation for this stranger (who isn't really a stranger) into your tidy space.

He's sitting next to you on the couch, a healthy distance away from you. He slices the cake evenly between you two, handing you the small plastic fork that came with the bakery.

"It's so rare for neighbors to greet each other these days," he commends you. "When you showed up at my door, I thought I was in a movie.”

“It’s just common courtesy,” you reply. “I’ve done it for everyone who’s moved into the complex.”

He chuckles.

“If I had known I'd be moving in next to someone so kind and beautiful, I would have signed my lease sooner."

You smile at his compliment, warmth seeping into your cheeks. You take a bite out of the cake. Strawberry shortcake. Your favorite. You notice that familiar gaze of his as it lingers on you. His foxy eyes scan you up and down slowly, and you'd never felt more exposed in your life despite being fully clothed.

"What a waste of a husband," he starts, leaning into you slowly, "to neglect you."

You freeze under his fiery gaze. His voice sounded different, unlike his playful teasing in the hallways. No, this was not Yeonjun. This was the camboy who moans out dirty words through unrelenting thrusts into his hand, biting back at viewers who command him to take it slow. 

The fork falls from your mouth and onto your lap as he inches closer.

"You deserve a better man," he says closely in your ear. "Someone who doesn’t leave you lonely."

You hold a shaky hand against his chest, preventing him from getting closer.

“What do you mean?”

He’s grinning underneath the mask. 

"[Y/N]," he draws your name out teasingly. "You're on a naughty part of Twitter, aren't you?"

You bring your hand down in an attempt to seem normal, but your nervous lip biting fails to make you look even remotely convincing.

"I have no idea what you're-"

"Don't worry," he interrupts, laying his arm around the couch behind you. "I'm not planning to dox you or anything."

He digs his phone out of his pocket with his other hand and shows you a sight you're already so familiar with: his Twitter profile.

"Look," he says, carelessly scrolling through his lewd content right in front of you like it was normal. "I know you know who I am. Like how I know who ‘housewifeblues' is.”

No, you tell yourself. This can’t be happening. 

"Listen, Yeonjun," you start carefully. "I don't know what you're talking about or who you think I am, but I don't feel comfortable continuing this conversation with you."

You can sense a smirk behind that damn mask of his.

"You know you don't do a very good job of hiding who you are," he chides. “Not very quiet when you’re touching yourself either.”

Your eyes widen, and he lets out a muffled laugh.

 "I didn't even have to see your beauty mark to know it was you, baby,” he continues lazily. “The way you looked when I mentioned your husband the first time I met you was enough for me to know. Reminded me about all the times you complained about him with those pretty pictures of yours."

His eyes fixated on your beauty mark and back up to your face, revelling in the way you nipped at your bottom lip anxiously.

"You don’t understand,” he whispers, his hand ghosting over your cheek. “How often I imagine it’s your hands on me when I go live.”

"Oh," you purse your lips, attempting to prevent noises of pleasure from coming out of your mouth.

"What's wrong?" he gazes into you. "Cat got your tongue?"

Yeonjun’s large hand hovers over your breasts, and you unknowingly arch your back toward him like it was instinct. When he sees nothing but lust clouding your vision, he takes a mound in his palm and massages you gently. You gasp at the feeling. It's been ages since you've been touched like this.

He kneads with both hands this time, intently watching your face for any signs of discomfort. But all he could see were your furrowed brows in pure ecstasy. He scoots closer to you, dragging his fingers across your abdomen as he lifts your shirt. Yeonjun's gaze darkens, your bare tits heavy in his hands. He massages, circling your nipples. They’re stiff from the cool air and his prodding fingers. Your head rolls back, moans coming out in meek bursts.

"I h-have a husband," you stutter out in between moans. It comes out like you’re reminding yourself more than to remind him. Yeonjun’s back rests on the couch, dragging you so that your spine is against his chest. He continues the push and pull of his eager hands on your breasts as you sit between his legs. 

"According to you," he starts, burying his masked face into your cheek, directly whispering into your ear. "He's already cheating, isn't he? Is it fair that he gets to have all the fun?"

You rest your head back onto his shoulder as he continues to tease you, pulling at your erect nipples harshly and then soothing them with his soft thumbs. 

It’s like he’s debating something in those furrowed brows of his, and when you roll your hips back into his, it feels like something snapped. Yeonjun pulls his mask down in one swift motion, and you almost moan out loud at the sight of his gorgeous face. 

His features are simultaneously sharp and soft, his lips so full and so kissable. No wonder he kept his face hidden; he was too dangerous for the internet to see. Everyone would fall in love. He'd be swarmed on the streets. Wars would be waged over him.

"I wanna fuck you so bad," he says, his gaze following your parted mouth. His face hovers over yours, and you shut your eyes in anticipation. It's almost soft the way his lips meet yours, slowly molding you to follow his rhythm. He pushes his tongue into your mouth gently, prodding so deeply that your saliva mixes with his. He grinds up into you from behind, the tent of his pants meeting the curve of your ass at a perfect angle. 

You kiss him back with an equal amount of fervor. You push yourself against him harder, eliciting a stifled moan from him.

Images of Sehoon flash in your mind, but are immediately erased as Yeonjun grounds your hips into his. He pulls down your pants hurriedly, his mouth never leaving yours. You spread yourself wide for him. You knew for the first time in your life what you wanted. He runs his finger through the wet spot of your lacy lilac underwear, latching his index finger to do small circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves just above your slit. His tongue clashing with yours as you attempt to stifle the low moans coming out of your throat.

He parts from your lips slowly, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. He looks down to where he's touching you, a shit-eating grin on his gorgeous face. So that’s how he smiles, you think to yourself, lost in the feeling of his fingers on the soft material of your cloth-covered clit. 

His pace is slow and methodical, leaving you conflicted on whether you should grind down on his twitching cock or buck your hips into his coaxing ministrations. It's not enough for you, but you'll take anything he can give.

"You're so wet already, baby," he croons. "Your underwear is soaked."

You whine when Yeonjun stops his movements suddenly, searching for friction by thrusting up into his still palm. You whine in relief when he pushes your panties to the side, running a teasing finger up and down your bare slit. 

"Fuck," he looks over your shoulder and past your chest, to get a better look at the effect he has on you. He inserts his middle finger in, your folds practically engulfing him with a loud squelch. In and out, it disappears into you with fervor and stretches you out so deliciously. Everything about him was so long, you couldn’t imagine what his dick would feel like.

"You swallowed my finger so well, baby. Think you can fit another?"

You nod, breathing so heavy you can't find it in yourself to quell your anticipation.

"Yes," you practically plead. Yeonjun chuckles.

"Lift your hips up," he directs you, planting another open-mouthed kiss on your lips as you follow him mindlessly. "I'm gonna take these panties off you, okay?"

You nod again, your feet high in the air so your godforsaken underwear could finally be removed. He pumps his finger, now slow and controlled. When he feels you loosen up a bit, he inserts his index finger in too, with slightly more resistance from your tightness. You groan, from both pain and pleasure. His hands were so big. So veiny. The way he curled his fingers up to reach a spot you never knew you had in you. Fuck, you felt so full already.

You don't know how it happens or how you got there, but you're on your back as Yeonjun hovers over you, pistoning his fingers in and out at a faster pace. His palm is grinding down on your mound, hitting every right spot as his fingers scissor into you. His tongue finds yours again, battling for dominance to distract you from the dull ache of being stretched out. He inserts a third finger in, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re not sure your body could take it, but you would. For him. His fingers, so thick and relentless, buried deeper inside your aching folds.

"I feel weird," you say as a bubbling and fiery sensation starts at your toes. You’re a muttering mess. "Never... felt.. this… good…"

Yeonjun chuckles, purposefully removing his fingers inside of you slowly, preventing you from reaching that elusive high you didn’t know you were chasing. Your hips meet the sky, mourning the loss of his touch. He traces featherlight kisses down your body, his face now directly in front of your pretty cunt.

"Your husband's never made you feel like this, baby?" he says, giving a few teasing kisses on your inner thigh.

"N-no," you cry out loud. "H-he's never even gone down there."

He stops his lapping to look up at you.

"He's never eaten you out?" he scoffs. "What a fucking loser."

Yeonjun dips his head between your legs and drags his tongue along your wet folds in one long stroke. He laps at you like a dog, addicted to your nectar on his lips. 

“Oh my god, Yeonjun-”

Your toes curl as he buries his tongue in you. He pumps it in and out of you as his hands grip your ass so tightly, you start to think you’d bruise from it. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. The fiery sensation building inside you returns almost immediately.

He peppers kisses on your mound, his mouth finding its new target. He sucked your clit hard, tongue circling your bundle of nerves until your stomach starts to tighten. Yeonjun lifts your hips up, pushing his face deeper into your folds. You clench around nothing, whining at both the pleasure and the loss of his tongue fucking into you. As if he read your mind, Yeonjun’s fingers find their way back to your folds. Teasing the entrance, you push yourself up into him, burying his digits deep in you as he continues his attack on your clit. Yeonjun licks and prods like a man starved of food, relishing in the messiness coating his chin and the addicting melody of your moans.

Your hips stutter as you feel the waves crash down on you. 

"Ahhh," you whine. Your body writhed underneath him, fingers clawing the couch armrest above your head.

You plant your heels onto the couch with shaky legs, and you cry out again. You feel something, whatever it is, building inside you. Your moans come out in panicked bursts until you start to see white, your juices spraying all over Yeonjun's face. He groans at the feeling, still burying his face into you. He lets you ride out your high as you grind languidly onto his nose. It takes him years until he pulls away, chuckling at your fucked out face and splayed out hair.

"You squirt, baby?" he teases, getting back on his knees to tower over your lying figure on the couch. "To think you couldn't get more perfect."

You shake your head, chest heaving up and down.

"I didn’t know I could do that," you confess. Yeonjun laughs in response, a little distracted. He pulls his hair back away from his face, his forehead glistening against your warm living room light. You want to kiss those pouty lips of his again. Your eyes travel downwards, to his strained gray sweatpants. Though you couldn’t see it, you knew. He was bigger, much bigger in real life.

“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he mutters to himself, his thumb finding your lips. “Can’t get you wet like I do, huh?”

You nod mindlessly, taking his thumb into your mouth as he pushes your tongue down with it.

“Probably fake your orgasms with him, hm?” His eye contact never broke away from your hooded lids. “Don’t ever need to pretend with me, baby. I can make you feel good.”

You barely notice it at first, but Yeonjun pulled his phone out. It’s quiet as he takes his thumb off of you to open the camera app. You stare silently as he props up his phone using the cake box he brought, sitting all neglected on the coffee table.

You say nothing, pursing your lips as you watch him put his face mask, soaked in your fluids,  back on. He adjusts the camera. You look away in panic when he hits the red button to record a video.

“Don’t get my face,” you say hurriedly. You wonder why that’s the first thing you say. Not “stop”, not a refusal. Some part of you wanted this, craved it so badly your legs widened for him again. He chuckles, glad that you don’t seem displeased with him.

"Don't worry, baby," Yeonjun says as he strokes your hair affectionately. “I'll pixelize it."

He unzips his hoodie, the same one he wore the day you first met him, revealing his toned body underneath. He did not take it off, letting it hang from his body like an accessory. You couldn't take your eyes off Yeonjun and the way his chest gleamed with sweat. 

"Fuck," he says breathlessly as he looks down at you, masked and still so hot. "I need to be inside you."

He pulls his pants down, and you bite your lip as a reflex. His cock was so pretty, standing tall as it slapped against his stomach. So big and so girthy, tip so vexingly red like in his videos. You've never taken anything his size ever. 

"You want a taste?" he asks teasingly, slowly stroking himself up and down at the sight of you. You nod, but you don't know why. You hated giving blowjobs. The smell, the taste. You were even open about it on your account.

But here you are, climbing over Yeonjun as he lies down on the couch your husband always sleeps on when a football match is on. Your doe eyes were level with his pulsating length, mouth salivating in anticipation. Inhaling him, it was nothing like Sehoon's mustiness. He smelled clean, like fresh laundry.

"Need my help?" he teases. "Want to make me feel good?"

You nod. "Yes, please."

The voice you hear coming out of you doesn't feel like your own. Your eyes shift to the phone, shuttering at the lewd sight of you in between his naked thighs. What did Yeonjun turn you into?

His hand holds your head, wrapping your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He pushes your face down gently, closer to his cock. You take the hint and hold him in your hand, tightening your grip. You drag your tongue on the underside of his heaviness, and he lets out a hiss that makes you clench around nothing.

"Take it into your mouth," he commanded softly, propping you onto his shoulders to watch you more intently. "Use your tongue. No teeth. And stroke what you can't take, baby."

You listen to him without hesitation. Mouth enveloping his tip, you swirl your tongue around it. The further your head bobs down, the more confidence you gain as you hear Yeonjun curse under his breath. His hand gently guides you down deeper as you swallow around his throbbing length. You pump him up and down from his base, using your dripping saliva as lube. Yeonjun’s whines permeate the room, just like in his videos. Pride swells up in your chest to know that it was you who made him feel this good. He’s never had a video with anyone else. You were the first.

You want to make him feel even better, make him feel like how you did just minutes before. You take your hand off him and lower your mouth further down his length. You work your way up and down his cock to ease the stretch of him as he thrusts up into your mouth listlessly.

"So good," he says through muffled moans. "Fuck-"

Before you can bottom out, Yeonjun pulls you up haphazardly. Your mouth came off him with a small ‘pop’ that had you smiling slyly. His eyes are glazed over, dragging you up by your shoulders.

"Need to taste you again," he says through bated breaths, pushing you down where he was lying mere seconds ago. “Need this pussy all over my tongue.”

"Did I do good?" you ask, lips shimmering with his fluids, as he positions his face above your folds once more. He smiles up at you.

"Don’t ask dumb questions, baby," he says, lowering his mask down to plant a kiss right above your clit. “Was gonna cum all over that pretty face of yours from how good it fucking felt.”

Your thighs hide his face from view, hiding the brutal pace of his tongue on your wet cunt from the camera’s view. Yeonjun did not hold back, so different from earlier. His mouth was relentless on your clit, planting French kisses on it like his tongue was searching for something underneath. He grabs the plushness of your thighs, forcing you to wrap them around his face. Scared of suffocating him, you try to pull away, but Yeonjun keeps your legs locked in place with an unyielding grip. 

Your eyes are blurry with tears from the sensitivity, eyes meeting the phone as you watch yourself get devoured so messily. You grasp at his red hair, pulling him away, but to no avail. You need him so bad it’s starting to hurt.

"Wanna cum with you inside me, please," you beg, already feeling that familiar coil in your stomach. "No more..."

He lifts his head up with a languid lick up your slit. Yeonjun licks his lips, his mouth and chin drenched in your fluids. He laughs as he looks up into your face, so eager and needy for him. Fuck, where were you all his life?

"You think you're ready, baby?" he asks, freeing himself from the cage of your supple legs that he willingly trapped himself in. He pulls his mask back on before crawling back up to you. His cock ghosts over the area below your belly button, guiding it down lower with his right hand.

“Think you can take all of me?”

He aligns his length atop your entrance, stroking it along your wet outer folds. He taps his angry, hot tip against your clit, and it’s enough to make you whine. Your tears threaten to spill over.

"Please," you cry out. "I want it so bad."

"Want what?" he teases. 

"I can’t," you whine as you try to avoid his intense gaze. He laughs darkly.

“I need to hear you say it,” Yeonjun smirks. “How else am I supposed to know what you’re asking for?”

Your face contorts into a silent scream when you feel his rawness slowly sink into you. He holds it there, thrusting only the tip into you.

“I need you inside me,” you whine. “Please, I need you to fill me up with your cock and fuck me.”

Yeonjun smirks.

“That’s all you had to say.”

He digs out a condom from his hoodie's pocket. He rips the packet open with his mouth and hands it to you, chuckling at your confusion.

"Put it on me," he coaxes. 

Your husband never ever used a condom, always assuming that you'd be okay with having unprotected sex and bearing his child. For the first time in your life, you wished a condom wasn't in the picture. You wanted to throw it to the other side of the room and beg him to fuck you raw and full. That you would be happy to carry his child and leave your husband for good. 

But you push those twisted fantasies to the deep recesses of your mind and take the stretchy material in your hand anyway. He watches as you hesitantly run the condom down his pulsing length. You're slow and deliberate, like you’re waiting for him to change his mind and fuck you without it. All he does is smile, stroking your hair out of your face.

“Good girl.”

Yeonjun positions himself behind you in a sitting position, your legs draped over his thighs to give the camera a good view of your puffy folds. He lifts you up high as he grips the back of your knees from behind, rubbing his tip up and down your slit to pick more of your juices up. 

“Look at you,” he whispers into your ear. “So fucking needy. Dripped all over my face, but all you wanted was this cock, huh?” You nod, mindlessly, whimpering in pathetic agreement.

Slowly, he impales you onto him.

You roll your head back onto his shoulder, biting down on his neck to distract yourself from the pain. Despite all the foreplay, you were still not used to his size. He was just too thick, still too large for you to take in. When you see his tip disappear into your folds, your tears start to fall down your face. It hurt, but you couldn’t have him pull away. You needed him right where he was. Inch by inch, you suction him in until-

"Shit," Yeonjun moans as the base of his cock hits your entrance. Fully engulfed in your folds, he steadies his breathing. You were so warm, so fucking irresistible in the way you clench around him in waves. He waits a few seconds until he starts to lift you up again. His hands are holding you from underneath your thighs, and with his support, you drop yourself back down on him. You cry out from the pressure you feel in your stomach. You can feel him against it, the small bulge visible underneath your belly button. He's hitting the deepest parts of you.

"Your pussy was made for me. So fucking tight.”

Yeonjun’s grip on you is tensing so suddenly. He bends you forward, so that your hands are on his knees as he pistons up into you. You can’t help but stare at the screen, moaning as you watch him push into you from behind.

"Oh my god," you cry out as he pulls your hips down against him. His length grinds against a spongy spot inside of you, and when he realizes he’s hit it from the way your mouth morphs into a silent O-shape, he smirks. What started as slow, cautious thrusts suddenly turned into a brutal and unforgiving pace of his monstrous cock within the deepest parts of your pussy. Yeonjun hit your G-spot again and again and again, his thrusts deep and unwavering.

"Look at how you’re letting me fuck you dumb," he groans out, grabbing your tits from behind as they bounce mercilessly in front of the camera. "So fucking wet for me."

You fall so forward that you're grabbing onto the coffee table now as Yeonjun stands up, while unrelenting in his thrusts into you. He kicks back the couch slightly, propping a leg up on it to have a better angle to fuck you. He pushes you down, having your back arched perfectly for the camera, as his thrusts quicken. 

“Ngh— Ah— I can’t—”

You try to quiet your moans, afraid of who might hear. Afraid of who might come into the living room to see you getting railed so hard and so desperately by someone who isn't… Wait, who was he again? 

"Taking me so well," Yeonjun grunts, pulling you away from your thoughts. "Like a fucking bitch in heat."

He slaps you hard on the ass, grabbing it right after, like you’d disappear if he didn’t. You squeal at the impact, shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.

“P-please, Yeo-” He stuffs his fingers in your mouth, preventing you from saying his name. You forget what this was, you forget that he was recording.

“Shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl,” he snarls.

“Wha-”

Pushing you off him, Yeonjun throws you onto the couch. You let yourself be manhandled by him, reaching out for his shoulders desperately, wanting so desperately for his dick to find its way back inside you. 

“You like when I’m mean, huh?” Yeonjun laughs as your mouth holds open at the absence of his fingers. “Like when I break you, hm?”

Inserting himself back in your wetness, Yeonjun holds you against the couch in a mating press. His eyes gaze intensely into yours.

"Let me hear you, baby," Yeonjun coaxes, his thrusts slow and shallow just to hear you whine. "Let them know who this pussy belongs to.”

You whimper, grinding up against him. You're desperate for him to be rough again, to put you in your place. To have your mind only clouded with thoughts of him and his cock only. God, he made a mess of you.

“Or am I not doing enough to hear you scream?” he pouts underneath his mask, clearly enjoying your desperation. “Maybe I should go harder…so I can hear you better."

He laughs, and you don't even have a chance to reply as Yeonjun pushes into you with a force so guttural that you feel his tip hit the entrance of your cervix. 

Like he predicted, you screamed at the painful ecstasy of being filled to the absolute brim. 

“Fuck–”

He continues his pace hard and fast, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your nails are clawing at his back, his head buried deep in your neck. His own moans rival yours.

“Yes, baby. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pussy for so long–”

 You don't realize the cry you let out when he hits that inner spot again. He thrusts, grinding against it again and again and again until you start seeing stars. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you breathe out. “I’m–”

“Louder, baby,” Yeonjun coaxes. “Need to hear you.”

Your mind breaks as the world comes undone around you. Your moans have devolved into ear-piercing whines, tears running down your face in pure ecstasy. 

Your climax hits you in droves as he continues to fuck you through it. He did not stop.

"I'm sensitive," you cry out in between your unintelligible babbling. "Please..."

Yeonjun shushes you, bringing your head close to his chest. You're practically sobbing now, pleasure overriding every other emotion in your body. Even the one nagging you about what Sehoon would think of you right now. About what your parents would think of their precious daughter.

"It's okay," he whispers soothingly as he continues to slowly thrust into you. "You can do it again, right? Just give me one more, baby."

Your face is contorted into a million different expressions as he adjusts to pick up his pace. It never stopped feeling good, but it was too much for your body to handle. Were you ever supposed to feel this much pleasure in your lifetime?

"I'm so close," he whines, his masked face buried deep in your neck. The noises your bodies produce are sinful. Squelches and slapping of bare skin echo throughout the living room. Your tits bouncing against his chest, your nipples rubbing against his. You can feel his breath quicken, and you tighten the grip of your folds to push him towards it. You want to see it, want to see how he comes undone from someone other than himself. 

Yeonjun’s thrusts become erratic, and his hold on your ass intensifies. You wanted to see it bruise the next day. He brings his left hand to your clit, and you yelp at the sudden intensity. His thumb circles you softly, so different from the brutal pace of his cock. The different sensations have you moaning into his neck. 

“I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s–”

“Shh,” Yeonjun pushes out through his own whines. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel it.”

You never knew you could want someone so bad, to be so lustful over another. The way his brows contort, so focused on bringing both of you to your peaks. You wish you could kiss him, but his mask brings out a different desire inside of you. 

You might be the only viewer of his to have seen him without it. A wave of pride consumes you; the thought of other people watching him fills you with rage mixed with lust. 

You feel the dam of your floodgates come undone once again as you clench around at the thought. Wouldn’t it be so nice to have him all to yourself? No husband to worry about, no viewers to get jealous over. Just him and you, fucking every damn moment of your lives.

Your tears of hot pleasure surge once again, and he groans at the sight of you so fucked out by him. 

“So fucking perfect,” he groans.

Your tightness propels him to grind into you harshly, the couch scratching the floor with his movements. One final thrust has him cumming hard into the condom, fully bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck-” Yeonjun moans as he buries his hair in the crook of your neck. 

You milk him of his climax, your body grinding into his to soothe his comedown. What you would do to rip the stupid condom off him and let his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh. You think you’d be willing to actually be a mother if it meant that Yeonjun could fuck you raw.

He sighs as he rides out both your highs with small, steady thrusts. Shaking from oversensitivity, you stop his movement to pull him in closer. 

Yeonjun collapses on top of you, not noticing the phone lying flat on its back from the impact of his roughness. You sigh out contentedly, petting his fiery hair. 

'So this is what real sex feels like,' you think to yourself. 

You felt like you were drifting on a cloud, with a man so beautiful lying on your chest. He scans your face, and a sudden wave of anxiety washes over you. Before you could push him off, Yeonjun removes his mask to plant a soft kiss on your flushed lips.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Yeonjun says with a sad smile, stroking your cheek. “Don’t ever let him think it’s the other way around.”

"Sorry for staying so late," Yeonjun apologizes, his plate fully cleaned out. "Your cooking is amazing."

You smile. He wasn’t wearing his mask anymore, as it sits in your laundry hamper desperately waiting for a wash. You couldn’t get over how glaringly beautiful he is. What did he do in a past life to be blessed with such features?

“It’s not all me,” you say, standing up from the dining table. “I had a great assistant.”

Yeonjun smirks.

“Cutting vegetables is the easy part,” he chimed in. “The fact you can season stuff perfectly without measurements is insane, [Y/N]. If he doesn’t come home to eat your dinners, I will gladly take them off his hands.”

You stand up, take the dishes, and put them in the sink. The guilt crept into the back of your mind. What were you doing letting this man fuck you in your home and help you cook dinner with you after?

This was not right. This is not the person you wanted to become. You can’t let this happen again.

‘I am married,’ you tell yourself over and over again. What would people think if they knew?

"Look, [Y/N]," Yeonjun stands up, making his way behind you. He dangles his phone in front of your face. The thumbnail of a pixelized girl and a masked man fucking on a pristinely white couch, one eerily similar to the one in your living room.

He uploaded the video. Without telling you.

"Yeonjun-" you gasp, your eyes widened with shock.

"Before you say anything," he starts. "I promise your face isn’t visible. But people may or may not have already picked up that it’s you– or at least the online version of you.”

56,000 likes and 5.4k retweets. You start to feel dizzy. Too many people have seen your body react in ways you hadn't even known it could until today. Although your face was pixelated, everything else was you. The way your toes curled when he fucked you with his tongue. The way your mouth wrapped around his big, veiny cock so willingly. The way you bounced on his dick, legs wide open just for him. 

You felt your body turn cold at the thought of your husband finding out, of seeing you so intimate with another man. Would he tell your parents? Would you have to waste the years you spent with him by having to pay him back?

"You're at 20k followers now," Yeonjun continues, not noticing the inner turmoil you were going through. "I uploaded the full video on OnlyFans and we really raked it in. I'll send you the money we earned next week. So far we've made this much already."

Your eyes widen. Your whole body freezes when he turns the screen over to you. The amount of 0s had you doing a double-take.

"Like just from one hour?"

Yeonjun nods.

“More than usual for me, too.”

You weren't allowed to have a job. Sehoon said it would make him look bad to have a wife who works. You could never put your hard-earned degree to use, could never get some extra money to spend on yourself. He gave you nothing to work with. The money that Yeonjun showed you will be the first time you've had any type of income on your own since you got married.

"You like that, huh?" Yeonjun says teasingly, wrapping a hand around your waist from behind. He nuzzles his neck into your shoulder. "I'm sure you'll be living a good life in no time with what we're earning."

“What do you mean?” you ask cautiously. You can feel his face nearing yours.

“You know what I mean,” he starts slowly.

He brings his other hand to wrap around your neck, applying a soft pressure. 

"I can satisfy your cravings," Yeonjun whispers darkly. "Make you forget all about that piece of shit.”

His hands trap you against the counter.

“Should we make more videos together, baby?" He draws out his pet name for you, and it almost makes you want to pounce on him.

Without your consent, he uploaded a video of you two having sex for the whole internet to see. 

You should say no. Every part of you is telling you to say no, but you don't want to.

You don’t think you could live without his cock inside of you at least one more time. His attentiveness, his care for you… You wanted it all. Was it so wrong to be selfish? 

"It's not cheating," Yeonjun assures you, filling in your silence. "We'd just be business partners after all."

He licks the back of your ear, coaxing you to look at him. His eyes are wide with expectation, so out of character for his usually hooded gaze.

“I won’t push your boundaries again,” Yeonjun insists. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

How could you say no to him with his fluffy hair and seductive eyes? He had you the moment he stepped through those doors. Hesitantly, you nod. 

"Okay," you say shyly under his gaze. "Let's do it."

Yeonjun smiles through the mask. In swift movements, he reaches around you and underneath you to stuff his hand in your pants.

"You look good in this apron," Yeonjun whispers, pushing his sweats down with urgency. "Let's film another one right now."

A/N: Loosely based of the manga "Kana NTR"

[gyuuchuuu]

omg i love your hee audios they are so accurate sounds 😭😭 a req of hee overstimulating himself n you breeding you over n over again

>> 𝕺nce upon a time <<

YAYAYAYA i’m so happy you love my hee audios!! he’s like one of my top 3. favorite to do, when it comes to making audios hehe

MDNI // nsfw audio

i hate periods like please just take me out my misery i don’t want this anymore

[cbeargyu]

assigned to you

summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

genre: dystopia, slow burn, romance, angst, smut, fluff.

warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,

wc: 19,1k

notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣

hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶

everything begins the day you turn twenty.

you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.

the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.

in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.

love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.

you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.

and yet—there is no other choice.

the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.

“please return home and prepare for assignment.”

you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.

sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.

three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.

you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.

your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:

assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.

a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.

you stare.

he’s... beautiful.

cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.

your throat feels dry.

beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.

you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.

it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—

yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.

a boy you’ve never met.

friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.

you’re early.

your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.

the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.

you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.

and then the door opens.

you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—

it’s hard to breathe.

he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.

choi yeonjun.

his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.

you feel like you’re being auctioned off.

“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.

you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.

“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”

it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.

you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.

the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.

you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.

then, the mediator clears her throat.

“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”

your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.

and just like that, you are alone with him.

just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.

yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.

“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”

you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.

“you don’t talk much, huh?”

you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.

“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”

he smiles. “that’s fair.”

a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.

“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”

you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.

“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”

your brows knit together, surprised.

he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.

“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”

and you look at him then, really look.

his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.

"you’re used to this,” you murmur.

his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”

there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.

you swallow, throat tight.

“i didn’t want this,” you admit.

he nods. “me neither.”

silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.

“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”

your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.

“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”

you blink.

he waits.

slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.

and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it— you speak.

you tell him a little. not much. just enough.

and he listens. attentively. sincerely.

maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.

two weeks later.

the wedding is on a thursday.

you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.

you wear beige.

yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.

the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.

your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”

and that’s when you finally cry.

not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.

they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.

you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.

“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”

you don’t answer.

he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.

your boxes are already inside. so are his.

the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.

you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.

and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.

but now, days pass like fog.

there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.

you go to the hospital together a week later.

the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.

yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.

you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history— you flinch.

yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.

“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”

his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.

on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.

“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.

“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”

and again—there it is.

that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.

nights are the hardest.

you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.

sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.

you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.

now, there’s only silence.

until one night, a knock.

not loud. not urgent. just... present.

“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”

you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.

“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”

you swallow. your throat feels raw.

after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”

you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.

you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.

you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.

that’s a first.

the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.

he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.

a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.

from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.

you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.

one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.

you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.

in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”

you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.

that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.

“so you don’t catch a cold.”

you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.

the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.

one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.

you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.

the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.

you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.

he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”

the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.

“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”

he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.

“i did,” he says finally.

your heart stirs.

“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”

you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.

“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”

you don’t say anything. you let him speak.

“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”

you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.

you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.

but you hate her a little.

you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.

and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”

he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”

the silence after that is heavy, electric.

you don’t answer.

but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.

the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.

you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.

you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.

“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”

you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.

“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”

you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.

you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.

and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.

you hate that it lingers.

you hate that it hurts.

that night, the rain starts late.

it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.

the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.

your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.

you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.

now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.

you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.

you don’t think. you just move.

barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.

he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.

you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”

there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.

his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.

he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.

“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.

yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.

you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.

“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”

you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.

“nothing’s going to break tonight.”

those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.

you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.

you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.

and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.

you slept like a baby.

it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.

it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.

you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.

and now you realize why.

yeonjun’s arms are around you.

not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.

your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.

you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.

but instead you stay.

you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.

his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.

you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.

he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.

“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.

neither of you moves.

there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.

“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”

you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”

he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”

you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.

“i felt safe.”

his eyes soften.

you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.

but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.

yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”

you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.

because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.

the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.

he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.

the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.

“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”

you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.

you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.

“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”

you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.

“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”

“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”

you shift in your seat. trials.

“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.

your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.

yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”

ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”

your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.

you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.

“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.

the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.

you don’t speak on the way home.

you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.

because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.

you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.

you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.

you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.

but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.

and now you can’t not think about it.

when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.

but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.

you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.

an hour passes. maybe two.

you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.

a soft knock at your door.

you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”

yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.

“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”

you nod. “it’s okay.”

he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.

“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”

your breath catches.

he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.

his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.

“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”

you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat. and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.

but this time, it’s not outside.

it’s you. it’s him.

and it’s not fear anymore.

it’s something else entirely.

you don’t kiss that night.

you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.

he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.

after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.

in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.

you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.

when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.

it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.

“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”

you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”

he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.

but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.

and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.

you think about it too much. think about him too much.

and you think about her.

the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.

you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.

how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.

and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.

but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.

you’re not in love.

you’re not supposed to fall in love.

yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.

one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.

you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.

“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”

you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.

“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”

he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”

“yeah.”

there’s a pause.

“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”

you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”

the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.

“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.

you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.

“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”

his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.

your heart stumbles.

neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.

the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.

you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.

you don’t move. you can’t move.

it feels too good. too right.

his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

you stay there until the sun begins to rise.

you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.

but he doesn’t move either.

and neither do you.

because something’s changing. you both feel it.

you just don’t say it. not yet.

not until it’s too loud to ignore.

and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.

you try not to overthink the moments.

you try.

the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.

you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.

he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.

you nod, throat dry. “morning.”

neither of you moves.

and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.

whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.

but things are still complicated.

you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.

“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”

your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.

“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.

and then yeonjun.

his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.

“not yet.”

not yet.

those words echoed for hours after.

the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.

“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”

you had never wanted to disappear more.

the walk home was silent.

yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.

but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.

you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.

he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.

the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.

his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.

you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.

“is that mine?”

you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.

“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”

“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”

you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.

and things only build from there.

he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.

“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”

he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.

but your heart stutters anyway.

one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.

yeonjun finds you there.

he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.

“can’t sleep?” he asks.

you shake your head. “not really.”

“you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure.

the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.

you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.

his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.

“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”

he’s quiet for a moment.

“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”

“like what?”

he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”

you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.

you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.

this is the moment where maybe everything could change.

but you don’t kiss. not yet.

you breathe in together.

and for now, that’s enough.

the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.

you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.

then the soft sound of rain begins again.

but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.

yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.

he joins you without asking.

“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.

you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”

“don’t tempt me,” he grins.

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.

your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.

you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.

yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”

“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”

he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”

“the girl you were in love with.”

his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”

that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”

you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”

“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”

but you don’t smile back.

you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”

yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”

you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.

“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”

he leans closer.

“you make me forget her name.”

you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.

“yeonjun…”

“can i kiss you?” he breathes.

you nod.

slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.

you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.

it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.

when you finally part, you’re breathless.

he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”

you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”

“me too.”

you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.

you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.

you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.

and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.

you feel chosen.

the next morning, something has changed.

it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.

you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.

when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.

“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.

he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.

and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.

at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.

you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”

“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”

“you asked first.”

“still counts.”

the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.

the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.

until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.

you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.

he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.

you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.

a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.

it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.

the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.

he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.

“so, are you pregnant yet?”

you freeze.

your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.

“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”

“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”

your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.

yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.

“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.

he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”

“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.

“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.

you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.

and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.

the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.

and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.

the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.

you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.

and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.

you break the silence first.

“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”

he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”

you turn to him, a little surprised.

“really?”

he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”

you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.

“thanks,” you whisper.

you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.

“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”

you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”

“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”

“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.

his eyes flick down to your lips.

“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.

your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.

you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.

and then he pulls over.

not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.

you feel your pulse in your throat.

“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”

you nod, heart racing.

“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”

you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.

“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”

he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.

“do you think i’m not happy?”

your throat dries.

“are you?” you whisper.

he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.

“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”

and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.

it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.

you melt into it.

your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.

“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”

you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.

and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.

you’re not lovers. not yet.

but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.

you fall asleep like that.

and neither of you says a word.

you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.

“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.

walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.

“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.

he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”

you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.

the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.

at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.

he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.

your breath hitched.

you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.

he said nothing.

neither did you.

but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.

the light turned green.

he drove on.

his hand didn’t move.

the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.

you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.

by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.

inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.

you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.

“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.

you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.

his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.

and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.

“thanks,” he said, voice still low.

you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.

that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.

your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.

later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.

you thought he’d say something.

he didn’t.

he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.

“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.

you turned your head toward him. “about what?”

he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”

you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”

silence again.

and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.

it felt dangerous.

he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.

your pulse roared in your ears.

his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.

you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.

his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.

his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”

his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.

and then—

his phone rang.

the sound shattered the moment like glass.

you both froze.

you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.

you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.

after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.

“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “oh.”

he didn’t explain.

he just walked away.

and something cold settled in your chest.

you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.

you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.

but then you froze.

because you heard it.

soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.

a low groan, deep and drawn out.

then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.

your breath caught.

you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.

then, you heard it.

“y/n...”

your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.

your knees weakened.

another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.

and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.

he was close.

he was touching himself.

thinking of you.

you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.

you didn’t know what this meant.

but you knew one thing.

he wanted you.

and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.

you didn’t mean to lean closer.

you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.

but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.

and then—thud.

a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.

then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.

“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.

before you could react, the door swung open.

and there he was.

yeonjun.

bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.

on the floor.

his shirt up around your waist.

your bare thighs. your panties exposed.

your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

time froze.

he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.

you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.

“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”

“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.

you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.

“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.

your breath hitched.

“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”

you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.

he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”

you couldn’t speak.

“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”

“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”

his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”

your lips trembled. “me too.”

something inside him snapped.

he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.

you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”

“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”

his eyes burned into yours.

his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.

“maybe i want you to.”

his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—

a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.

you both froze.

his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

another knock. then a voice from outside.

“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”

“fuck,” he hissed.

he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.

you looked at each other.

your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.

you wanted to scream.

but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered.

you didn’t respond.

because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.

you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.

his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.

you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.

every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.

he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.

you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.

just him. just you.

and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.

his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.

"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"

"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.

he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.

and then.

he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"

you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."

every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.

his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.

“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.

the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.

it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”

you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”

your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”

you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”

when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.

"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.

"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.

and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.

his.

yours.

the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.

the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”

your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.

“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”

you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.

“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”

you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”

“perfect. when was your last period?”

you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”

you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”

“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”

you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.

the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”

his hands stilled on the steering wheel.

“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.

“oh.”

another silence.

“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”

“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”

but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.

and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.

“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.

yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”

“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.

he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.

you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.

“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”

his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”

your breath caught.

the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.

this wasn’t just about reproduction.

not anymore.

and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?

set your blood on fire.

you didn’t even make it past the front door.

as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.

your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.

you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.

"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.

"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.

he didn't need more encouragement.

he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.

you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.

“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”

he didn’t make you ask twice.

he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.

"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.

you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.

“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.

“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”

“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”

he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.

"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”

you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.

“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”

“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”

but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”

he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.

his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

neither of you said anything for a long time.

but you both knew.

there was no going back.

the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.

the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.

and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.

sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.

it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.

you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.

“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”

you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.

later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.

and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”

the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.

he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.

“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”

your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.

back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.

he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.

and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.

“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”

the world stilled.

you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.

the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”

you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.

the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.

a baby.

your baby.

with him.

“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”

“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”

you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.

he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.

and it did.

you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”

the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.

when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”

you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”

he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”

you’d never felt more seen. more loved.

later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.

and now it had shifted again.

you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

you were parents.

you were a beginning.

and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.

of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

but now, it was here.

growing inside you.

growing between you.

and it was love.

the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.

she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.

your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.

it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.

now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.

“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.

you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”

he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”

“barely.”

you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.

you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.

“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.

“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”

“or jumping each other.”

he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”

you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”

“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”

“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”

he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”

“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”

“then take me,” you breathed.

you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.

“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”

you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”

he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.

“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”

“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”

he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”

you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.

“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”

“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”

your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.

“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”

you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.

he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”

you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.

and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.

because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.

and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.

[choiyeonjuns]

[tyunningism]

͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏💞 ⟡ ͏˚｡⋆ ᴄʏʙᴇʀ sᴇx ⟡*₊˚💞

── .✦ pairing: c.bg x reader

Stepping over the boundary of 'friends' is your forte. The two of you are always meddling into the grey area where there’s no fine line between flashing each other for fun and actually hanging out. Just walking in on one of your conversations feels like an echo chamber of gradually lame inside jokes and dirty innuendos. So it’s no surprise that you’re video calling him at 2 in the morning with a hand preoccupied. Besides, a bit of cyber sex is nothing compared to whatever you and Beomgyu share with each other.

╰┈➤MDNI - NSFW content ahead... …or in simple words…ғᴡʙ!ʙᴇᴏᴍɢʏᴜ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ft. fwb!Taehyun ᝰ.ᐟ wc - 20.6k

warnings!! and mentions!! switch!gyu (predominantly sub leaning) x reader, mutual masturbation, unprotected p in v, riding, sex over the phone and video calls, fwb!Taehyun x reader smut scene, sexual jokes, voyeurism, minor jealousy, fingering, oral!m rec, handjob, cum eating, instances where reader's sex tapes are shared, profanities, petnames, praise kink, whiny gyu agenda, creampie, light pinching and dacryphilia, gyu and reader work at a store <3

tyunningism's note: Very much delayed ackkk I'm sorry! But my Beomgyu redemption fic is finally here, and I hope my readers enjoy this new work hehe <3 (I have to add Taehyun in everywhere, he just reminds me so much of the virgin formula tyun and I love it gosh)

Beomgyu’s heard it all before. You know, the short-lived but nevertheless ‘juicy’ details of your private life. From dick size right down to the wacky kinks, he’d need another set of hands to count all your misfortunes and jackpots when it comes to your pound-town of a bed. That’s what six months of being packed with you into working the 5 to 9 shift has bestowed upon him: a listening ear to your oversharing. If only… he could put all that effort into his scut work instead of blabbering back about twice as much.

Normally, any other person has a secret they’d carry to the grave without making a peep; in his eyes you’re totally transparent. You wear your heart on your sleeve all year round, and your tits, but that came from you, not him. Even so, Beomgyu had to learn the hard way that trusting friends with secrets is a fragile concept he shouldn’t underestimate. The time Kai snooped through his phone ended up with his nudes on the screen and his best friend retching on the floor mere seconds later. He doesn’t need to get into the gritty details to explain that it was a tough pill to swallow. He figured it’d be better to speak with no filter than be caught trying to filter it out for everyone’s sake.

Being so open with each other never failed to lift a burden off your chests though. Whether it was about a customer giving either of you the hots, or the other end of the extreme, in which you’d both cuss out any of the pricks you encountered behind their back. It just never crossed his mind that your oversharing sessions could ever… backfire.

“Didn’t see you pay for that at the till.”

He raises his head just enough to narrowly avoid a sure-to-be-sore collision with the upper shelf, eyebrows raised as he turns towards the scoff in your voice. You didn’t need to point a finger directly at it for him to realise you’re doubting the opened can of beer that’s magically found its way in his hands.

“Awh-fuck. Must’ve picked it up without thinking after I restocked the beverages.” Beomgyu gives a half laugh, transcending back into the low hum his voice is permanently altered to whenever he’s lost sleep.

You’re hauling another crate of vitamins and over-the-counter pills when it lands with a thump on the floor, wiping your forehead glistening with mild sweat with the back of your hand. “Yeah, you look like you need it.” Your thumb rubs over the braille on the packaging as you set the boxes of pills on the shelves. “Haven’t seen you look so shit since Kai crashed your Ford.”

Standing around with a can of beer while you worked your back out trying to fill up the very back of the shelves only made him feel worse. He rubs his temples and takes the first sip of the night, knowing that glugging it down would only make the pounding in his head worse. “I-I know I usually talk more. Sorry, this must be bori—"

“Usually you don’t make stupid mistakes like dumping all of the Viagra stock on the shelf that clearly reads ‘vinegar’ Gyu.” It’s obvious you had more to pick on him for, but the shortage of breath from having to squat and stand up to empty the crate onto the shelves is tedious work. “It’s like you read condoms instead of condiments on the aisle sign.”

He blinks twice, then tightens his grip on the can until the metal indents with his fingers, and takes a larger sip.

“You actually did, didn’t you?” A kick to the half-full crate, mounted with piles of painkillers, causes it to slide across and land before his feet. “You’re lucky the pharmacists haven’t caught your ass for that.”

“Sounds like you’re saying I need another drink.” A lazy smile unfolds over his face, enough to flash his teeth but not enough to drawl out the endearing smile lines you’re used to seeing. Until disaster strikes again, and suddenly the tired lean of his head against the shelf is too much weight, knocking the vitamin gummies at the very top down to the floor.

“I’m saying that you should clock out early and sleep. I’ll cover for both of us for the rest of the shift, and I’ll pay for the beer since I love you so much.” Jokingly, your shoulder nudges his as you stack his crate of toothpaste onto your crate of vitamins.

Saying ‘love you too’ feelings-free wasn’t difficult back then, not like it is now. His throat dries up not because he’s exhausted and dehydrated, but because he’s never hid anything from you when you’re so used to sharing everything with each other.

“No, it’s fine I just—” a sigh leaves him, “I’ve been stressed.”

“Stressed? What…like, can’t get your dick wet?” This is how it should be. Laughing, cracking jokes, gossiping about whose sex tape was leaked by their best friend. But he doesn’t return the light-heartedness at all, awkwardly rubbing strands of his hair between his thumb and index.

“Y-yeah, something like that.”

The pause between you dwells for longer than he’d like; he watches the cogs in your head turn as you think of something borderline serious, even if it’s unlikely. “Get someone to stroke your shit then, you’re starting to sound like Micropeen Mateo.”

No one wants to delve into the history behind your disappointing ex unless you’re using it against Beomgyu whenever he’s whining on. For all he knows, Mateo’s tried harder to find a hookup than he’s ever had.

“The girl I usually see cut it off with me last week. She’s moving to the inner city.” Stumbling from the weight beginning to pile up on his hands, he attempts to set down the bottles of vitamin gummies you’ve picked off the floor from the accident nearby.

“Ooh! I liked her, the hot girl from Nepal who gave me her lip combo? Can’t believe you bagged her in the first place.” You observe the knit in his brows displaying the hurt he took to your obvious banter, which makes you turn away from him awkwardly as you finish your tasks.

You squat to pick up the last bottle of gummies. Your eyes flit between hurling it towards your co-worker, whose hands are full, and passing it directly to him as you have already been. It’s around then that your mind finds a better idea, a generous offer to help your good friend.

“Y’know, you can always ask me for help.”

Faced with your back, Beomgyu can barely grasp whether you were dead serious or joking without the aid of your expressive face. Like you dropped this entire bomb on him without warning, and he’d rather accept his fate than ask you for clarity to defuse it.

“Hah..ha…hah, HAH… holy fuck, that’s the first time you’ve ever been funny.” He tries to laugh it off, aggressively or not doesn’t matter, playing off the absurdity of your proposal with a couple of slaps to your arm as you turn back to face him.

Everything about you is composed. Not laughing alongside him even in an empty store, and to make things clearer, your hands cross under the swell of your chest as if you wanted him to take you seriously. Even if it really only brought attention to your tits instead of the adamant look on your face.

“I’m being serious Gyu, if all you need is a handjob to be functioning on something other than beer, I’ll do it.” The way your words seamlessly roll off your tongue can make even the vulgarest of sentences seem as natural as a simple ‘hello.’

You didn’t even stammer when you spoke. Now you were left waiting for him to speak up as unaffected as you are while you bat your lashes at him. On purpose? He can’t tell.

In hopes that the two sips of beer he had are enough to justify the blush creeping across his cheeks, he attempts to maintain eye contact with you as though his boxers aren’t suffocating around the growing boner he’ll have to pull his shirt over. If only you hadn’t sent one last blow to knock him over for good, pink tongue sticking out with a finger pointed at the wet muscle.

“Taehyun says I’m good at giving blowjobs too.”

Beomgyu swears he doesn’t mean to, but he clicks his tongue at the name anyway. Taehyun has grown accustomed to the slightly sour tinge in the roof of his mouth when he hears it. Sure, he’s never met the guy in the flesh, but he can piece together a decent image from the details in your exaggerated storytelling.

Truthfully, he’s never cared for the ins and outs of whoever you were sleeping with, because by the time it reaches your routine shift together, you’d have retold everything to him like he cuckolded the actual thing. Not that he’d mind if you suggested the idea. After all, it wouldn’t be exclusive between the two of you, and neither is it exclusive between you and Taehyun.

“The new roommate you slept with the second he moved in?” You’re applying red discount stickers straight off the roll when he says it, bottom lip tucked under the other, while you recall the memory.

“Mhm, and every other week since. He’s good at it Gyu,” he watches intently as you bend your middle and ring finger and rub the air in circular motions, “you’d understand if you saw him. Were you even listening to anything I told you on Monday?”

Tell him about it; he hasn’t been focused on anything you’ve told him this week. “The way you describe him makes me feel like a fucking chud jeez.” Taking the roll of stickers out of your palm, he peels about three and sticks them onto his fingers, plastering one on your forehead and the rest on the whitening strips instead of the toothpaste.

“Well then, chud. As I was saying on Monday, Taehyun and I tried masturbating togeth—”

“And?” Beomgyu huffs as he starts plastering discount stickers on everything that shouldn’t have— it makes you wonder how he’s not fired yet. But he’s charmed enough regulars to put in a good word for him to get away with virtually anything; he’s ‘eye-candy’ to be precise.

“— And it’s hot. So you should try it with me.”

Everything else became a blur after you left, subconsciously blocked out, even if he’s certain what you had to say was important. It just wasn’t important to Beomgyu when you’ve enticed him with something purely theoretical at the moment. Stay here for any longer than 6 minutes and 28 seconds, and he’s a goner. Poor guy’s been uncomfortably shifting in his pants since you went off to clean the store about 20 minutes ago.

It doesn’t help that he’s been ogling at you from afar as you locked up the tills. Within the time that’s passed you’ve tied back your hair, snuck yourself a lolly from the jar by the register, and scanned ‘n paid for your microwavable dinner tonight. For two, he notices.

The red flush inevitably grows on his face as he imagines it before him. Stepping into your apartment, feet tangling with your panties on the floor, and you lifting your shirt for real this time instead of joking that you will.

Is he some sort of sick perv? Yes, no…maybe? He shifts the blame onto being pent up, not because it’s you or anything akin. This feeling of being desperate makes him all the worse. Especially when the drool from his mouth leaks onto his uniform after being hypnotised by the way your lips purse around the tip of the lollipop, tongue swirling around the protruding rim, then sucking it whole. There’s only so much imagination needed to make it seem as lewd as it is in Beomgyu’s eyes.

“Gross dude. I know you guys have sex and all but it’s Thursday. This whole eye fucking thing you’ve got going on is unsexy.”

If there was one way to describe the look on Beomgyu’s face, it’s that he looks like he’s seen a ghost from how shrill he yelps seeing the dirty blonde come into view.

“Shit— you scared the crap out of me! And we aren’t fuck—”

“—We aren’t what? What are you and Jjun talking about?”

All colour drains from his face as he sees you pop your head around the other end of the aisle. In hand, you’ve bunched up your keys and his, a coat half pulled over yourself with the other sleeve still hanging. You fuss over the fact that it’s time to clock off as you tap your finger against the imaginary watch on your wrist.

“Let Yeonjun take care of closing up tonight. Unless you don’t want to come.”

“C-Cum?”

“Come with.” You mouth a soft ‘thank you’ in the other male’s direction before recklessly tossing over Beomgyu’s car keys. A small giggle emits from you watching him stumble to try catch them, oblivious to how hard he’s trying to multitask with catching the keys in one hand and pulling his shirt over his boner with the other.

Like some lost puppy he follows right after you, not beside but behind, accidentally stepping onto your heel whenever he mismatches your pace. You don’t even question him as you walk out of the store and into the parking lot, until you spot his busted-up Ford—that’s in desperate need of a trip down to the mechanics—parked miles away from your own Chevrolet.

“Need something from me Gyu?” Your head cocks as you climb into the driver’s seat, locking him out before he could even make his rounds to the passenger door while you roll down a window to talk to him.

Speechless is an understatement. Well, you told him you’d help him out if he needed it, no? He can barely make sense of why you’re as visibly confused as he is, biting apart the remains of your lollipop while the bare stick twirls between your fingers.

“Y-you were going to h-help me…with that thing.” The worst you could do is change your mind and tell him no, and give him time to wallow and wail over it later in his own front seat. Not cocking your head to the side and acting like you’re clueless when he’s been thinking about your offer for the past hour in the most degenerative state of his twenties.

Caught you right in the action, he did. He heard the little lies slipping past your tongue to rile him up. He let you roll back up your window with a laugh, pushing his buttons further as your voice grew muffled through the glass. “Ohmygod speak up Gyu! What thing?”

“I’m going to pop your tyre if you make me say this out loud—” Saying it’s cold in the parking lot is the equivalent of agreeing to the fucking allegations between you, not quite there yet, but sitting on the border. Mainly because in Beomgyu’s books it’s fucking freezing, a chill he can’t just shrug off, but leaves him shivering enough to want to screw over your offer and head straight towards his car.

Your hand cups behind your ear as you lean closer against the window, a lengthy ’huhh?’ dragged out just about loud enough for him to hear, and cuss at you over. “I didn’t get that Gyuuu!—”

“—You told me you were gonna help me rub one out or something!” The car rocks slightly as he thumps his forehead against the frame of the driver’s door. An arm tucked beneath his face to hide the blush spreading as he leans, unsure of whether opening his eyes to see your reaction or continuing to shy away in humiliation would give him less of a headache.

“Beomgyu! Don’t say that out loud!” The tiny glint in the smile of your eye tells it all, that you knew what he was getting at from the start, and he’s fallen a pawn into your own amusement. “How do I put this? I mean, we live on opposite ends of the city Gyu and you know how much I complain about the fuel for this thing. Just thought you’d catch on…that I wanted to do it over the phone. It’ll be easier.”

“O-over the...phone? Yeah— over the phone, that’s cool, fine uh— do I c-call you or?” Luck is always on the course to mess around with Beomgyu at the worst possible moments, including now as he stutters over each syllable, thoughts still processing in his head mid-sentence.

“Then call me tonight. I’ll be trying on the new lingerie I bought from Spencer’s if that helps you with anything.”

Shooting himself in the foot is all that Beomgyu’s ever known to do. Biting down on his nails but not chewing, eyes glued to your contact page on his screen while his fingers are set in stone. Minutes pass into hours, the small 22:00 in the corner winds back to 00:00, and by then he doubts you’ll even be awake to answer his procrastination-delayed call.

Hell, he doubts he can even remember how many times he’s stumbled out of bed to press his face flat against the mirror. Fingers rubbing over the rough stubble growing in, wetting the tip of his finger to slick back the stray strand he’s never able to tame for long. He looks a mess, and a desperate one at that. Still clad in his uniform when it clicks in his head that he should change, shower, flip his apartment upside down until it’s spotless before even bothering to dial you at this hour.

It's nothing but a voice call; it’s not like you’ll be able to see him anyway. Yet Beomgyu knows all too well how real it’ll start to feel once the buzz of your voice through the speaker brushes over his ear. He’d hate for you to see him squirm at the edge of the bed, nodding eagerly for no one but himself to observe in the mirror, the thought alone making him blush from the chin up.

Grinning like an idiot with his phone idle and right against his ear, his fantasy is cut short by his ringtone, a call sent from your end as he takes note of the round profile on display. You’re smiling gently, with your best friend’s face popping out in the corner to meddle in the photo, and for a second it’s too dirty to think about. Plastering your face on top of a body wearing lingerie seems unnaturally lewd, despite your mouth being the filthiest cove of words he’s ever heard. So he lets his phone ring for a millisecond longer, legs dangling off the bed as he hunches to press the phone closer against his ear to fend off anyone else from the luxury of hearing your voice in the late hours of night.

“Hey.” Beomgyu bites on the knuckle of his thumb, eyes screwed shut as if that would be any help to drowning out your simple greeting.

The traces of sleep that still lag your speech are apparent. Soft groans and mumbled words that enter through one ear and come out the other once it’s passed by his dick first. No one’s to blame him for thinking you’d forgotten about the offer for real this time when you’re still stirring awake.

“Couldn’t call any later Gyu. I dozed off on my bed in this…” your voice pauses, the softest snap of a band just about audible in the background, “lingerie waiting for you to call you know.”

“Y-yeah my bad, I was busy with something—”

“—Whoaa, really Gyu?? You got a head start on jerking off?” The sarcasm drips in your tone, honeyed and raspy as your giggles sound out the white noise in his room, and it turns him on more than it should.

“Where did you get that from? I-I’m not even hard yet.” With that, he plummets back onto his bed, arms spread out to give him more space to breathe before draping a backhand across his forehead.

“Should’ve taken the Viagra you misplaced if you needed help getting it up.” You’re soothing him as you speak, light hearted and playful enough to ease his nerves from sky high to still terribly high. “Would photos help?”

And then sky high again.

“Photos? Like, nudes?” Beomgyu’s speech slurs from word to word, gulping down every inch of embarrassment starting to seep in and pigment his cheeks a rosy hue. Who could’ve guessed that you’re an expert at leaving people hanging? Because as you hum into your phone, he’s listening and wide-eyed with a palm situated over his mouth to muffle the small whine that leaves him.

“I’d be impressed if you could get hard from photos of what I had for lunch.”

The buzz of a notification leaves him unsure of how to function. Whether it’s to check your message head first without warning, or mutter a cheesy thank you beforehand. It’s difficult for him not to have his hopes up when you’ve been leaving smidges and crumbs for him to fall apart in your hands like mush. In his head, that sort of reality isn’t far off Heaven, and as he opens up your message on the display of his phone he can only conjure a single semi-decent thought.

Tempting’s just too weak of a word.

Covered in nothing but a tight-fitted tank, the fabric bunches together into fine lines that carve out the swell of your tits. The lighting in your room isn’t the clearest. Slightly fuzzy areas of shadow and dull ambience from the lamp balanced on your nightstand, draping your skin in warmer, gentle hues. Your legs cross over each other, panties pulled down to just above one knee, torturing him with the urge to pry them open. Tempting him with the thought of how the flesh of your thighs would spill between his fingers, plush and pudgy where it’s softest.

Insignificant little details that may have slipped from your memory, he remembers. From the butterscotch lotion you snuck home with your employee discount, imagining how you’d rub down the inside of your thighs with the off-white cream. Right down to memorising your evening routine, and how furiously he blushed when you admitted to wearing nothing to sleep solely for comfort.

Little by little, his eyes trace over how your thighs smush together, the subtle rise of your chest that makes you appear as breathless and needy as he is. Perhaps you didn’t intend on it when you snapped a photo of something so suggestive, but with all his attention focused on you, it’s a total loss to look over the lacey lingerie peeking from under your top’s straps. Somewhere in between pink and white, the see-through fabric only amplifies his perverse desires. So much so that he nearly misses the muffled whimper in his ear.

Beomgyu doesn’t mean to parade on whatever you’re up to now that the line’s gone…quiet. But the sloshing that seeps into the audio of your mic opens you up to being read like a book. A part of him wants to break the chain of muted whines to ask if you’ve slipped in a finger or two yet. If you’re soaked enough for your fingertips to become prune-like and drenched in your juices, if you could lick down your digits and tell him how you taste.

“Gyuuu? You’ve gone silent again— don’t tell me you’re still looking at the picture.” The drag of his name enters the territory of a whine, catching him off guard as his vision unblurs from a lustful focus on your waist to the call icon hung at the top of his screen.

“S-sorry I forgot—” It would’ve saved his pride by an inch if he wasn’t turned on so easily by an amateur picture of your top half clad and your thighs crossed tight enough to hide it all. He’s seen filthier things: cunts gaping with cum he could only dream of being his, silicone sex dolls tearing apart from brute force, voice-guided masturbations from his ex-favourite fem-dom creator, who he suddenly grew tired of. Though none of them have pushed him to the extent where he can see the patch of precum leaking through his boxers, beading from his tip in generous enough intervals to soak through his thick sweats and leave them pathetically stained—nothing like what your photos do to him.

“Hard yet?” The sultry façade of your tone targets straight for his cock, the mass twitching in the restraints of his boxers.

“Y-yeah. I’m hard thanks..f-for the—”

“Let me see Gyuuu, come on! You told me you were pretty well off down there.” The buzz of your camera turning on tickles his ear, thoughts fluctuating between whether it’d be safe to bring his phone to his face or if he’d cum on the spot alone.

“This is different!” Your chuckles at him only make the heat spread across his face like a wildfire. Each staccato syllable of your laugh contributes to another bead of precum as it oozes from his slit, cockhead too sensitive to push his boxers past and relieve himself.

“You wanted to try out this whole masturbating together thing, didn’t you? When Taehyun’s away at the gym, he likes it when I guide him through the camera.”

“O-okay, I got it!” Beomgyu’s palms sweat with a nervous clamminess, gulping down the drool beginning to swash in his mouth as he observes the way you’ve positioned your phone.

You’re leaning against your headrest, knees bent, and legs opened wide enough for everything to be on display if only it weren’t for the hand shielding your dripping folds. A small pool of your juices staining the bedsheets is barely visible with the light emitted from your screen, turning the white sheets grey as you fiddle with your lingerie. The fabric protrudes where your nipples perk, the thin mesh grazing over the sensitive nubs as soft moans collapse from your lips.

Seeing you already prepared and past the awkward stage of fiddling with what angle works best, Beomgyu can only settle for flipping to his back camera to direct it at the rough bulge in his pants. He tries to shuffle away his fingers so you can’t poke fun at how they’re burning pale from how hard he’s digging his nails into the mattress, trying to make sense of the situation in his head and trick him into feeling natural. Even if nothing about stroking his cock to his co-worker playing with herself is natural to begin with.

“Whoa fuck— you’re not a minute man are you? Looks like you shot a load already with all that precum,” your thighs visibly tense up as you take him in, the shyness hitting him as he chews on the inside of his cheek, “wanna see it, take it all off.”

“I-I can’t— feels sensitive, I don’t know it’s never felt this…close before.” The line enters silence again. With fingers tiptoeing past the waistband, your voice fading into the background until he could hear the shuffling of footsteps outside your room, and his own breath still hitching.

“Shit, you nearly just made me squirt.”

Stammering, only a few incoherent noises of jumbled words leave his mouth. Dizzy in his head and only growing harder despite it feeling impossible. Your eyes never left their station on his bulge, glistening obscenely as you observe the way the girth twitches profusely and shifts about in his grey boxers.

“I’ll give you a close-up of my pussy if you touch yourself for five seconds without cumming.” Everything that emerges from your lips is nothing short of nasty, the grossest set of words he’d only be able to hear from a porn jackpot, only to refresh the tab for it never to be seen again. He’s more than conscious of how badly he should be savouring this, not shy of a little edging if it means he can drag on the call for even a minute longer.

Without communicating another word, his fingers weakly grasp around the waistband. His thumbs fumble over the drawstrings, trying to undo the knot he wishes he’d done earlier with a singular hand. The camera shakes out of focus, placed down on the mattress face-first and left recording the ceiling.

Of course you were a tad disappointed in the loss of any action to satisfy you, other than the overhead lights in his room that remain unlit. Impatience is your biggest enemy, you’ve always thought, but for tonight it’s your greatest friend as you pester him to hurry.

Back camera, foggy. Lighting, about as bad as yours. Except you struck gold with the bed of hair intruding in the far corner. Face framing pieces fall into place as he runs a hand through his hair, the upwards angle catching a small glimpse of the jawline screwed in concentration. Eyebrows furrowing until they touched the brim of his lashes, a mere bead of sweat rolling down the end where it drew your attention to the slight hissing of clenched teeth.

Beomgyu is hot, that’s never been a secret. At least twelve of your friends have nudged your shoulder until it popped out of the socket just to pry for his number, and you can see it in their eyes that it’s not just his face that they’re after, but what he’s hiding under the belt too.

Guess you’re not any different from them after all, definitely not with how your pupils are zeroed in on the bob of his adam’s apple as he finally undoes the strings, and the small expression of clarity and relief in his slack jaw that follows after the series of grunts.

“Tied it too tight, I-I’ll leave it alone next time.”

“Next time?” You hum amusedly as you lock back into action, squeezing the hand between your thighs as you press them together.

Your usually talkative co-worker hesitates to even respond, embarrassment kicking in as he pans the camera towards lifting the restraints of his sweats and soiled boxers in a singular, shaky movement.

“Holy shit Gyu…” He’s already set on rehearsing his essay-length apology with a thumb hovered over the ‘hang up’ button, practically scratching at his thighs to be pressed. It doesn’t help that you don’t utter anything after, your own camera wobbling as your face comes into view, attempting to get a closer look.

In Beomgyu’s eyes, it wasn’t much— even if he talked big out of his ass to prove a point. Just a view of his cock leaking in the most virgin-like way he attests to, snug under his belly button before waning to the side as he twitches. He was somewhat confident with every booty call he’s shown up to, ending with a mantra of praises for his size alone, but he doubts he could live up to whatever Taehyun’s been feeding y—

“I-Is that real?” The zoom in of your face as you inch closer towards the screen for long enough to feel invasive only catalyses the blush spreading from his face to his chest. “You’re probably the biggest I’ve seen, well not seen, but— I mean, I could make a couple of guesses with the slacks you wear to…work.”

Theoretically speaking, what’s more detrimental to Beomgyu’s urge to cum untouched right now? He can’t pinpoint whether it’s the pride that fills him seeing your tongue dart out to lick the drool leaking from your lips, or how you moan on cue as the lighting finally reveals the singular vein running down the side.

“So the entire month that I spent scrolling for a good dildo, you didn’t even nominate yourself to help? I thought we were closer than this Gyu.” Retreating to the backrest again, you smile softly while a finger brushes over the lingerie mesh covering your nipples.

“That’s crossing the line! What if you were grossed out? H-how am I ever going to work a shift with you again?” The patch of skin on his abdomen glistens with the precum continuing to leak, the rounded cockhead bouncing lightly against his skin.

“And talking about your diehard praise kink isn’t? Come on, don’t act like you weren’t jerking off to my voice when I called you after I posted those bikini pics.”

A shooting star must’ve passed by just now, and Beomgyu’s just wished for a ditch for him to bury himself in. You didn’t even call him out or act with any indifference. Could you blame him for thinking he was slick with it? “That was one time!”

“Mhm, you really like being whiny for a guy you know. Why don’t you put all that energy into touching your cock like a good boy? I gave you five seconds, remember?”

On command, he doesn’t bother to put up a fight. His free hand moves in time with your approving hums, amplified by the soft gasps from both of you when his fingers finally wrap around the base.

“S-shit— how do I—?”

“That’s right. Guide your first upwards, press against the slit and promise me you won't cum.” Only dread awaits him from here; he knows he won’t be able to hold back from whatever unfolds next if he obeys. Though he listens and follows attentively anyway.

His thumb hovers dangerously close over the slit, enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body as he hesitates. “C-can’t…I’ll cum too fast and then—”

“Three…two…”

Your countdown eggs him on. Choosing between the dirtier of the two evils means giving in to your instructions, hoping that you’ll give him another chance to redeem himself for such short lived bliss.

Neither of you could tell if it was even caught on camera, or at least visible, from how quickly he retracts his thumb after pushing down on the slit. The male lurches forward with his phone, shaking from the weak grip in his hand. The nerves in his cock tingle sensitively as blood flows without warning and flushes his tip a rosy pink. It takes more than a couple seconds for him to regain his train of thought, the orgasm on the brink of occurring flashing before his mind as he sighs nervously.

“I think you’re deserving of the reward I promised you earlier, hm?” Cooing at him, you spread open your legs again as you tease him with the slowest drag of your hand, unveiling nothing he hasn’t seen already as you delay the reveal.

“Please—”

Beomgyu swears with a cross on his heart that he didn’t mean to come off so desperate as a high-pitched mewl. Although sounding desperate was the least of his worries. Especially when all he could react with to seeing your dripping folds, spread open by the same fingers you touched him with at work earlier, was moaning at the top of his lungs for what felt like a minute straight.

Your fingers circle your clit, pinching at the sensitive bud whilst your other hand instinctively reaches up to appeal to your nipple. With every swipe of your fingers down your folds, they return with a new and thicker load of slick that pops and crackles through the audio.

“Feels s’ good—mngh— Wanna see you fuck your fist t’me getting off.” You pick up the pace by rubbing your clit, the nub growing puffy in real time as he watches you play with yourself. He catches on to the way you pinch at the flesh of your tits or your thighs whenever a surge of pleasure runs through you. Paying attention to each detail of how your back arches slightly and your chest heaves without mercy to catch more than just a shallow breath, pushing your mounds together to tease him tirelessly.

Within a matter of seconds, he’s following up. Giving no more than a couple of experimental strokes to ease the heightened sensitivity, gliding vertically down his cock with just the fingertips.

“Wish you were the one making me feel this good Gyu. Imagine it’s me jerking you off right now, wouldn’t I be going f-faster?”

The effect of your words on him leaves Beomgyu with no room to think for himself other than to listen to your sultry voice, like a siren luring him in with the lewdest gasps and soft pleas you meddle into your praises for him. His favourite being the way you gasp when his finger strokes up the vein and his entire cock throbs and twitches in response. Seeing how your jaw falls open into a breathy moan only makes him all the more curious about how pretty you’d look with your mouth around him.

“N-ngh— take it off p-please—”

Finally finding the courage to wrap his hand around his length completely, Beomgyu’s head throws back in pleasure as he chews on his bottom lip, eyes flitting down low enough to catch sight of how you slip down the lingerie, revealing the swell of your bare tits for him.

“Is that what you wanted Gyu? Being rewarded for touching yourself like a good whore? I’ll tell you all the things you wanna hear pretty.”

Fuck, if he could engrave one memory into his mind forever, it would be this. To frame it somewhere and grant a plaque in your name of all the filthy things you whisper in between the sound of your juices squelching as you flick and rub at your clit.

“Bet you wanna know how tight I’d feel when you’re inside me, I’ve never taken one as big as yours Gyu~” Appearing again, your two fingers spread apart your folds, revealing the way your hole starts to clench and gape open a tiny gap, fingertips caressing over your entrance as you whine out his name.

“N-no I can’t cum yet w-wait—!”

“Cumming already? Would a close-up help?”

Give him time to say no. Let him refuse and prove to you that he’s more than a minute man as long as you don’t zoom in. The hazy blur of pixels and slight lag on the screen is what’s keeping the sensual overload of the call rocking at bay; shuffle any closer to give him a better view, and he might empty his balls on his sheets by accident.

Time doesn’t rush you; the reward of an orgasm does. You shift your phone closer, resting it on its side with a fortress of pillows behind to support the weight, keeping it in focus and clear. Unlucky for him, the close and upfront view of your cunt acts as an invitation for him to bury his face in the heat between your legs, and it brings him to the edge, or already dangling off it.

Beads of sweat roll down the valley of your thighs, mixing with your wetness as your thighs squeeze together and rub from the touch of each circling finger. So brief he could’ve missed it, the sight of your slick stretching between the webs of your fingers. Strings of your juices snap apart as you spread out your greedy folds, clasping for the fist beyond the screen, brewing white at the knuckles to take over once your wrists start to ache.

“Hnnngh— b-been holding back too long, c-can’t!” Groaning, his slender fingers concentrate on the pink cockhead, flushing the same shade as the lipstick he gifted you, which you swore was too bright. Although the gift was put to use. Just for marking yourself in dirty, bold lettering to embody the whole ‘slutty’ look in the bedroom for fun, rather than dusting your lips in a shade even your mother refuses to touch.

“I’ll let you cum on my face if you stop muffling your moans Gyu. It turns me on when I hear how good I’m making your cock feel hmm?”

The comment by itself is enough for him to dig out his chin from his chest, his mouth catching pieces of fluff from his sweater as he tries to rinse the embarrassment dry. Letting out cute, little whimpers that wouldn’t have been caught by the mic if he had been any further from his phone, one by one.

“Nmph-mnngh— O-oh my god—” His vision crossfades until your face held above the camera covers the majority of his tunnelled sight. Your arm can be seen slightly jerking from the strain of your shoulder as you continue to fixate on releasing shortly after him. The loose strands of hair you clipped back at work earlier this morning now stick to your cheeks and forehead in a messy montage, curled ends reaching the corners of your lips as you gasp into a moan.

On purpose, you knit together your brows, squeezing and fluttering your eyes shut as you chew on the fat of your lip, whispering raspy mantras of his name that aggravate the pit of lust below his abdomen.

“C-cumming. O-oh my— oh shitt—!”

Mere seconds before release, he lowers his camera towards the sheets. A camera faced with nothing but bunched up wrinkles of white, with unrestrained grunts that could be heard in the background that made your core pulsate for him.

Beomgyu shudders as he strokes himself whole, thumb pressing against the sensitive vein from the base to the tip as he unloads his cum across your cheeks on the screen, cock twitching as he spots the way you loll your tongue out to catch his seed. The off-white appears grey as the light from his phone burns his eyes, and so does the image of his cum dripping down your cheeks in thick loads as you smile into the camera for him. Unpure at best, the deliberate gaze settles in your eyes, trying to harvest another round from him as you bat your lashes, still needing to cum yourself.

“Gonna need another load in you to spare until I c—”

Entering a silence he’s no stranger to once again, aside from his jagged panting, Beomgyu can barely adjust to the sudden relief in his eyes as the bright screen closes on its own. A relief that’s too short-lived when he can’t find the spread of your legs or your sweat-covered cheeks in front of him. He tries to knock the phone awake by tapping ruthlessly countless times, continuing long after it became hopeless.

“Charger— Charger…where the fuck’s my charger?!” There’s a guilt that doesn’t sit perfectly in his stomach. The regret of not being able to hold on to the one-time miracle of a call for long enough to see the face of pure ecstasy your features fold into when you’re feeling good.

Taking shortcuts, crawling along his bed flat on his stomach towards the other end, and fiddling with the tangled chargers he agreed to sort out two weeks ago. Still overly sensitive after coming down from his high, even the gentlest rub of fabric along his dick is enough for him to hiss out a half-whine.

Perhaps he should be investing in a new phone next, one that doesn’t die within seconds and doesn’t take centuries to charge, or meet him in the middle whenever he needs to go out for drinks late into the day. Has he ever considered religion as much as he does right now while praying that you haven’t given up and gone to bed unattended when he hung up without warning? Doubt it.

Fingers crossed too if that made any difference.

Blank loading screens have him on edge as they continue to stack on and delay the restart. By now you’d have probably pulled out the purple vibrator you were ranting to him about last week, come all over it in seconds like how you always praise it to do, and worst of all cuss him out for being an ass. A huge ass for dipping the second he cums like you’re fish food for every other pent-up loser whose fuck buddy left him, though he’ll have to explain the dead battery part before it leads to that.

Until the second his phone glows bright again, his lockscreen is covered by the swarm of your messages. Filled from top to bottom with ‘?’s and ‘what happened?’s until you gave up with a short and sourly sweet ‘goodnight gyu 💗.’ With courtesy of the heart you left next to it of course, until he sees the ‘nickname updated to selfish minute-man’ in fine print on his screen.

“I didn’t mean to hang up, you know that. My phone can’t be out of the vicinity of a charger for longer than five minutes.”

Stocking the shelves again— wasting another shift, and to make matters worse he has to make it up to you for leaving you hanging sober. He doesn’t even consider whether you’d offer to cover for his drink this time either. Hell, if you were really pissed about it, you might as well snitch for the beer he snuck on the clock last time, and Beomgyu wouldn’t dare to think of putting up a fight.

“And you should know that I’m not pissed at Gyu, promise! When you hung up I thought that…” Pausing, you examine his features carefully, as you have been for the past 5 minutes, poking fun at the sulky pout he’s subconsciously forming. You bump shoulders with him, carrying a bundle of packaged and sliced loaves to replace those on the verge of expiring, leaning into his ear to whisper something as you always do when it’s taboo to say in public. “I thought your cum got caught in your speaker and broke it Gyu—”

“Ergh— wait that tickles—!!”

By popular demand (you), you wished you had one of those video-recording glasses on hand to capture the way Beomgyu squirms away from the hot fanning of your breath against his ears. On the contrary, he’s much more opposed to how you don’t seem to ever have a reaction stored in you at all. Especially considering that you happen to both be working on a shift together when not even a day ago he was jerking off to you over a screen.

“If you’re feeling guilty because you didn’t see me finish then I don’t think you’re actually guilty, sounds more like perverted to me.”

Once again, it’s night and day between your individual shelves. Loaves packed and neatly shuffled into precise columns, versus the pastries he’s yet to have even touched, forget about restocking the shelf. He’s always slacking off around you. “Oh! And I finished with a little help anyway, so don’t worry that pretty head of yours around it before our revenue drops below break even.”

Way to go Beomgyu, always overcomplicating everything for himself. He knows better than to prod you on even further, like trying to light up a spark that’ll only end up setting off a firework in the end, not that it’ll stop him either way.

“Help?”

“I’m not sleeping through drenched panties Gyu. Not when Taehyun’s in the room opposite, I’d be stupid not to—”

“So, what exactly are you guys? Like…a thing? Oh god, don’t tell me you’re cheating on him by helping me get off.” About two steps in towards him to take matters into your own hands with stocking up the pastries, you don’t waste a second in flicking his forehead hard enough to burn a sigil for idiots on it. “Ow!— What the fuck?”

“Like hell we’d be a thing. I told you I thought he only liked guys when he first moved in. I mean…the stuff that Soobin guy says whenever he’s around gives me the creeps.” Beomgyu’s about to add in how your suspicions are more often than not baseless, but you seem to beat him to it with a finger pressed against his lips. The same fingers you were rubbing yourself with yesterday— webbed together by your slick. “Think of it as if Kai brought a guy back to your apartment, and you could hear him talking about how he likes to be punished and kicked around?! There’s no way you wouldn’t suspect something Gyu.Sounds like they’re discussing bedroom rules for hardcore shit to me.”

“Play detective all you’d like, but we talk about things like that too.” A small scowl leaves him as he rubs against the sore spot on his forehead. Reaching in to then tug gently on your ear to give the umpteenth mouthful about finding better evidence before accusing.

“Well I guess he’s only really had girlfriends— I’m getting distracted, aren’t I? Hff, it doesn’t even matter since we’re not each other’s type anyway. It won’t go further than some casual fucking.” Beomgyu blinks as if that’d help him to understand whatever spewed from your mouth, if it even processes in his head, that is. This whole ‘fucking without strings attached’ concept he can’t seem to grasp as loosely as everyone else does. And while it’s never been his intention to come off as easy, he’s already struggling to keep his heart in his chest after you called him.

“Right, you don’t even have photos of him in your camera roll—”

“—Okay, but how are you going to explain the dildo he keeps in his sock drawer?!”

22:15. Beomgyu should’ve been on the road ten minutes ago. With the radio repeating the one-hit wonder of the month as its lyrics are remixed by the static, and his box of takeout on the passenger seat, held still by his unoccupied hand, trying not to spill it all over.

Sometimes he’ll call. Ask Kai if he got into an argument with his girlfriend so he can stretch out his back before being left with the couch. Give his mom a quick dial to let her know his shift is over and that he’ll be coming home for the weekend. He’d call you once you hit the roads going 60, wringing out each and every last minute he could out of your day as you both drove home from work. Both rambling about whatever shitty customers you ran into in the hours you were stationed on opposite ends of the store, or something like that. In the same manner Saturdays always are.

Except this Saturday, for no other apparent reason but you. Where he’s not humming to the background noise of your car’s heater through a call, or asking Kai if he finally mustered up an apology for showing up late to his date. On top of missing the takeout box beside him too, only because he never left the parking lot in the first place. To which he should’ve considered signing himself up for an extra half hour of overtime if he knew he would’ve been sitting in his car with no push to drive back home to begin with.

He's empty-headed and overthinking all at once. Picking at his nails and chipping them slightly as that nervous, clammy feeling got to him again. The question still hangs heavy in his car. Whether it’d be greedy to ask for more tonight, whether he could be one of the guys you take back to your place.

Anyone could see the dazed trance he’s in, including Yeonjun who’s filled in as a substitute for a takeout box. He’s welcoming himself in and muttering an overly exaggerated ‘thank you’ before Beomgyu could even agree to let him unfold himself out of his work slump and into the passenger seat. Way too busy fixing his hair in the mirror despite it being too late out to notice the subtle improvement in appearance.

“Take me back to my apartment. Phea. Sant” The male fumbles his fingers along the sides of his seat while he cracks poor-landing jokes, struggling to find the recliner he needs to convert the already compact car seat into his bed.

“That’s ironic coming from you. Didn’t realise the rich are now hitching rides out of busted up Fords and working at supermarket chains.” Lifting open the tiny compartment, there are a couple of dimes that won’t ever be used for as long as the car lasts, a hair tie neither of them questions, and a stripped 12-pack of gum. Which he should’ve handed over to Yeonjun briefly, if only both of them weren’t so fixed on the contents inside as if they were expecting a pack of condoms to be hiding there.

“Looks like we both need a drink.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Truly speaking, he’s heard it almost 7 times today from worried coworkers, yourself included after you caught him wandering around the men's toilets every 6 seconds before stalling in there for another 4 minutes.

A second of silence passes, but it’s enough to throw off the atmosphere in the car alone as Yeonjun grabs hold of the phone to type in his address, scratching his head while re-navigating the GPS after accidentally clicking on a similar road 40 miles away.

“So who broke up with the other first?”

“Broke…up?”

“You and who else? All you do is give each other ‘fuck-me’ looks—”

“—I told you we’re not like that.” The passenger window rolls down as Beomgyu digs his finger into the switch, just in time for a rush of cold air to blow through, the chill causing the older male to curse and sit straight up.

“Kissed?”

“No.”

“Thought about it?”

“What are you getting at—”

“Fucked?”

“Maybe?—Oh God, look. I don’t know if it even…counts.” The engine is rusty, but it miraculously starts in its state anyway. Steering the wheel out of the parking lot, he can just about see his grey-washed reflection in the side mirror, taking in how rough he must look for Yeonjun to have known something was up from the get go.

“You’d look happier if you really got laid.” He chuckles as he undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, then licks around his lips before checking himself out in the mirror once more. Plus his phone in hand, ready to drop a picture to the first ten people in his contacts for the love of the game if it weren’t for the sullen mood of the driver. “Spit it out. What went so wrong?”

Well.

 Wouldn’t he like to know too? “We videocalled, and we— w-we masturbated together.”

“—Holy SHIT!? You did?” Yeonjun jolts out of his reclined seat again, just without the window this time. His eyes are blown wide enough to see the vessels, his eyebrows look sharper to the point it seems discriminatory, and there’s that obvious look on his face that stands for ‘you…and her?’ that burns a hole through his pride.

“Y-yeah just, I don’t know. Feels like I was ten times more into it than she was, but it won’t go anywhere if I don’t ask her again.” Silence stalls again as the car takes a turn towards the inner city, providing a small period of reflection for him. All the while, his friend tries to make amends and assures him that anyone can tell you’re into whatever borderline foreplay you’re doing with him on the job. “We aren’t even dating or exclusive, she’s still bedding her roommate.”

“Then why don’t you ask her about becoming exclusive? Just actually get your dick wet in her first for a start, that roommate of hers is a nil ahead.”

“Ask my co-worker if she can drop her roommate she’s been sleeping with for months to fuck around with someone she doesn’t see outside of work instead. Sounds solid Jjun.” Frustrated, he rubs his temples, his throat starting to feel dry from the amount of complaining he’s done in the span of a couple minutes.

“No harm in trying. Don’t you like her?”

Like. It’s started to lose meaning after how many times he’s contemplated the question himself. Enough to have rewritten the definition in his head after spending his night dwelling over it, the new abruptness to these newly sown feelings.

“No, I—I’m not sure.”

“So you wouldn’t care I shoot my sho—? Fuck man, watch it!—"

In Beomgyu’s defence, he didn’t mean to slam down on the brakes as harshly as he did. Although an action done without regret as he ultimately eyes the way the blonde immediately holds up his hands to feign the question as a joke. Dangerously close to breaking his nose from hitting the panel, breathing in hefty huffs as the adrenaline pours out of him.

“Why don’t you just ask her on a date and get somewhere?” The dirty blonde doesn’t hesitate in tugging on Beomgyu’s ear, although less affectionate than how you’d done so. “And stop scaring the shit out of me dude! Any faster and you’d have a busted Ford and my busted lips on your windshield.”

“I jotted it down on my planner and everything! I read it before I had to attend the meeting, I swear!” Kai’s rambles take up most of the room. An endless rant of how he’s inexcusably turned up late to a date he planned two weeks in advance with his girlfriend again, already sulking into the pillow over how he’ll make it up to her. Or he could be entirely wrong since he wasn’t fully tuned into any of what Kai was saying from the second he crashed onto his mattress. Too focused on the extra weight on the bed that he’s too embarrassed to say he's turned on by when his thoughts are constantly revolving around you.

“Mhm.” There’s nothing sinister or bitter behind his short responses; he loves Kai as much as everyone else who’s met him does. But his eyes are constantly trailing away from his roommate and down the headrest where you would’ve lain back on your bed, the edge of the mattress he was fumbling his drawstrings on, and the phone he’s been eyeing for the entire hour you hadn’t sent a message.

“We can talk about something else if it bores you—”

“—No, speak. I’m listening.” It’d be better if he could learn to be a little less of a thinker like Kai is, constantly forgetting things as if they never bothered him in the first place. Aloof and easy going despite his misfortunes in keeping up with his girlfriend.

Kai rolls off his back and onto his side, poking his gaze at the older male to find the smallest smidge of integrity in his words, only to be faced with him zoning out again. “We can talk later, or maybe another day if you don’t want to hang out today. You seem out of it, that’s all.”

Perhaps that’s what’s so lovable about Kai, and what makes it so hard to deny him forgiveness despite the mountain of apologies he’ll spout. Even if it’ll only result in more forgetfulness as time passes. “I think I might— I might ask the girl I work with on a date.”

“You’re not just asking the ‘girl you work with’ on a date, call her by her name at least.” A gentle but reprimanding punch to his arm leaves Beomgyu sighing, picking up his phone to scroll the list of date ideas Yeonjun sent to him last night to search for something that matched you.

“Do girls like it when you take them on dates to a greenhouse?”

“Is she allergic?”

“Good point. Better safe than sorry, uh— movie date?”

“What if you pick something boring?”

“Restaurant?”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? W-where do you and your girlfriend go on a date then?” Beomgyu regrets wasting his breath on the question the second he sees the shrug of the male’s shoulders, or in summary, a hint that Kai’s never the one to plan them.

Defeated, he turns back to his phone. Clicking onto a small aquarium venue with high enough ratings to seem decent, already thinking of learning a couple of fish names beforehand to flaunt that his intelligence isn’t stuck up his ass for once.

Though he’s snapping out of it the second your notification pops up at the top of his screen like some sort of beacon of light. A short and sweet, ‘need you’ with a frowning emoticon beside it, and that’s all he’ll need to be shooing Kai away.

“Kai— aren’t you supposed to be at your girlfriend’s place right now? She asked you to cook dinner.”

“M-me? What?! She did?—”

“She mentioned it when she called to ask if you were asleep. You didn’t forget again, right? You gotta go Kai. Like..now. Unless you want to fall back on your word again—”

The door slams aggressively on accident as Kai leaves the room in a rush, unsure as to whether he remembered to change out of his pyjamas to be somewhat presentable and not like he just woke up.

Even if his girlfriend never called for him at all, it’s not like she’d complain about the thoughtful surprise.

A tap away from the call button, so close yet so far as the low battery warning punches him straight in the gut, and his balls that ache in disappointment. Humorous timing really. Just not when his luck is always cockblocking him at the last second.

“Come on, comeoncomeoncomeon where the fuck did I leave it?” His fingers graze every surface of the bed, twisting the knob of his drawers, and kicking over his guitar which he manages to save from complete havoc a centimetre off the floor.

When he mentally pleaded to share the same kind of forgetfulness Kai possesses, he pleaded for leniency too. In the sense that he could clear his mind of thoughts about you so he could think straight for once. Not that he’d be forgetting where he placed his fossilised laptop among all the scrap he and his roommate trashed around the apartment over the past two nights.

Krrrk—

“Holy fuck if that’s what I think it is—” Beomgyu doesn’t know whether opening his eyes to check on whatever he crushed with his heel is safe for his own mental health, well aware that this time it isn’t just a small dent or a jammed key.

Closed eyes? Check. Feeling nervously clammy again? Check. Sensing the boner that’s weirdly growing because even in the midst of this he’s still thinking of you? Gross, but check.

Hell, he doesn’t even try to lift his weight off the flattened mass at all, too afraid to look behind him to see a crushed screen he should’ve folded close before deciding to leave it hanging on the floor.

But not for long the second he remembers you’re still waiting on him. Thus forcing open his pinched-shut eyes to face what seems to be the sunglasses Kai drunkenly bought whilst on holiday, with the real laptop just a step behind it.

It’s that blinding ray of mercy that he gets onto his knees for, hugging close the garage sale bought device tighter than he’s ever hugged anything else. And while it sucks to load any better than his crappy phone, it makes do when it’s plugged into the mains at least.

Drawing his blinds to a close slightly, Beomgyu rests himself back onto his bed again with his fingers locked into position to call you before his laptop could even start up properly without the cursor lagging eons of years behind.

That’s when he notices it. You’ve changed your profile picture again, completely eradicating your friend from the frame to replace it with the beach photo from the summer you spent in Europe that you refused to show him for the longest time. Now fully on display for him to see on the big screen of you in the itty-bittiest bikini he didn’t realise was even legal to sell without a public nudity fine packaged with it.

Smiling with your hair down and a finger trying to wisp away the strands being blown into your face away, you could pass off as a front-cover model if you tried. Minus the bikini and you could pass off as the girl he’ll see in every sex dream he has from here on.

What a shame that he isn’t exactly nimble enough to screenshot it before your camera came into view too as you picked up the call. Fully undressed so you could giggle to the camera that you ‘beat him to it’ shifting your phone down to give him another lethal close up of your puffy folds that pulse around your fingers. The desperation in your soft mewls stemming from not being able to cum properly rather than having reached your third orgasm before bothering to ask him once you got bored.

“I-isn’t Taehyun home to help you?” Goddamnit Beomgyu, he ought to keep his tongue obediently put in his mouth unless he wants to stick his foot in it instead.

“You’re asking about Taehyun? Why— he’s got you jealous?” Another bait you threw out for him to fall for, giggling louder as you observed the way he immediately chews on his lip as if you read his thoughts completely. “Does it not seem like I want you Gyu?” You purr at how he subtly shakes his head, bringing the slick gathered on your fingers to your mouth for a quick taste, moaning around your fingers on purpose to rile him up.

“Is the camera fine?— I tried to answer on the phone but I—”

“Relax Gyu. It’s a little blurry, but you could always inch closer can’t you? Missed seeing your huge cock on the screen.” You grab hold of your phone to level it with your gaze, batting your lashes in a silent plea for him to do as you wish.

“T-that’s embarrassing! Don’t say tha—”

“Say what? That you’re huge? That I want you to struggle to fit it inside and fuck me until I can feel you all the way up here?” You glide your finger down from your chest to just above your belly button for him to see, rubbing small circles on your skin as if you’re marking a target for his tip to brute through. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about Gyu, I’m sure plenty of girls wanna be bred by a cock like yours.”

“Enghh—” If he was planning on trying to wallow himself in more shame then the twitch in his pants would be the one to stop it, alongside the heavy whine that accidentally leaves him. God, does he want to bury his face into the mattress right now.

“I can’t be the only one feeling good here Gyu, you wanna make me cum as an apology for last time right?”

Your hand sinks between the valley of your thighs again, drawing out clumsy little shapes around your clit as you slowly lose yourself in the fleeting pleasure. Your lashes flutter to try and keep up your eye contact with the bulge straining in his pants, fingers pinching your clit as you tease your entrance with your middle finger. Slick pools from between your folds, the splotchy sound of your arousal flicking between your fingers as you rubbed yourself repeatedly fills his ears. Beomgyu’s distracted by it of course, but he doesn’t hesitate to snap out of his trance the second he hears a whine barely a pitch higher collapse from your soft lips.

Without a word he’s tugging off his pants without as much of a struggle as the last time you rang, groaning heartily as the sting of the cold air latches around the cockhead, all angry and red as it slaps against his abdomen.

“I bet it’d take hours of prep for that not to hurt,” as your voice trails off into a moan your back arches, giving him a cleared view of perk of your nipples through the paper-thin shirt starting to lift from your waist up, “Mmph!— jerk yourself off Gyu, wanna see me cum for your cock don’t you?”

Grunting in response, Beomgyu spits into his palm to lube himself up with the saliva, easing himself into the ache in his forearm as he forcefully thrusts his fist down his cock. You follow in pursuit, eyes sparkling in awe from watching his cock grow harder with time, fingers bumping against the gentle ridge of your clit in bursts of pleasure that rob you of breath.

“Fffuckk Gyuu!— keep touching yourself like that, it’s so fucking hot.” Whimpering, you choke on your spit in response to the flick of his wrist as he pumps his cock and coats it completely in sheen fluid. The vein on his arm pops out from straining his muscles, sweat beading down his forehead where he could taste the saltiness on his tongue whenever his mouth gaped open to groan. And best of all, how his hair becomes dishevelled in the hottest sweat-slicked mess you could imagine, the kind that has your heart and pussy throbbing whenever you notice the lust in his eyes once the strands fall in front of his lashes once more.

“Look so needy when you’re f-falling apart on your fingers pretty— mnghh-ah—" His sentences are starting to emerge from pure brain-fogged lust, not having the bother in him to care any less about whatever humiliating rambles leave his lips which he’ll regret ten seconds later.

Because there’s only so much you can handle before you’re pushing your own limit too, crying out loud without second thought on how thin the walls are in your apartment. Tiny hiccup-like gasps emit from your lips as your face screws shut in pleasure. Your fingers repeatedly target its circular motions around your clit as your stomach tightens and your thighs tense, visibly shaking in immense pleasure as you near release.

“G-Gyuuu ohmygod ffuck!” Voice pitched higher than usual, lips quivering as your moans vocalise into needy whines, if this is how you looked every single time you orgasmed he wouldn’t mind volunteering to help you cum a couple times more.

“I told you to keep it down princess, can hear you playing with yourself from my room.”

Beomgyu visibly jolts at the sound of another man’s voice filling his ears, notably extremely different from Kai’s for it to be from outside his room, and way too obviously from yours with how you jump to cover yourself.

“I forgot I’m— sorry, I’ll keep it down so you can get back to making out with your pocket pussy pretending it’s Ev—”

Interrupting your casual banter, the thump of footsteps announcing his entry inside your room causes your brow to raise in the same manner that Beomgyu’s has. “Not the time princess, throwing me away already?”

Tufts of brunette invades the camera space as a man’s face appears blocks you out of view. Devilishly handsome, Beomgyu will admit much to his dismay, especially when his sharp canines appear when he flashes a smirk.

Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to piece two-and-two together that it’s Taehyun. A total hunk with a singular silver stud in his ear and a black tank that flaunts how the bulk of his biceps covers the entire screen. But one thing that he doesn’t admire quite so much is the slyness to his gaze despite the rounded shape of his eyes, the threat behind it stretching far more than who should be given the priority to dip their hand beneath your shorts.

“Can barely see the guy. Didn’t realise crap cameras like this still existed, are you sure you came from looking at a bundle of pixels?”

“Taehyun!” Your attempts to defend him are quickly overridden as the brunette sits himself onto the mattress beside you, a smug grin plastered over his face upon seeing Beomgyu’s cock still stiff in his hand.

“Greedy girl. Whoring yourself out for a bigger cock now? He hasn’t made you squirt yet, has he?” Burying his head into your neck, all that Beomgyu can really do through the screen is watch the salty performance in front of him, and jeer and complain to try attest the insults thrown his way by the other.

Not that it posed a problem to Taehyun. He was already drowning out the background noise the second he started pressing wet kisses against your neck, inhaling your scent while your fingers interlocked with his hair.

“Tyun! Gyu’s there, I’m spending time with him!” His ears perk upon hearing his name, inching closer towards the screen to see how your brows twitch as Taehyun nibbles along your ear. The growing erection peeking out from the corner of the screen making the older male wince in distaste.

“Through the phone? Isn’t that our thing? I’m sure he’ll cum just as easily if I show him how it’s done.”

“Gyu are you sure you’re—?”

It physically pains him seeing another man’s hands all over you even if it’s not directly in the flesh; it grieves him more to compromise with it as long as he focuses on you. Solely you.

“I-it’s fine.”

Seeing the smirk reappear on Taehyun’s face only fuels the jealousy further, biting down on his tongue as he glues his eye onto the way Taehyun smushes your tits together in an arm lock. Every movement of his is trailed by Beomgyu’s gaze, following in line with the slide of his fingers down to your dripping folds, noticing how your moans breach into higher octaves whenever he sucked along your shoulder.

“Don’t think he can hear you from there. I know you can be louder than this princess.” Using the sheer force in his grip, he widens the gap between your legs, prying apart your thighs roughly to stretch out your folds. “Have you told him how sensitive you are down here yet?” A low curdle of a laugh sifts through his lips, the upturn of his smile barely grazing behind your ear as he pinches the flesh of your inner thigh.

Anyone could tell that Taehyun knew your body inside out. Beomgyu spots it in the way you lean back into the brunette, thrusting your tits towards the camera, whining from the pain that seeps towards your core. He knows exactly what to feed into your ear, whispering just about loud enough for you to be squeezing your thighs together, only for him to pry them open again. Though for Beomgyu on the other end, he can hardly hear anything coming out of Taehyun’s mouth when your moans are constantly interrupting him.

“T-Taehyun—” Your breath hitches as a weak hand grabs hold of his, guiding his finger towards your entrance, and weakly inching him in. “Need more Tyun, s-stop wasting time picking a fight with ngh! Beomgyu!—"

Beomgyu twitches once more hearing you cry out his name, although the fleeting feeling leaves as suddenly as it came when you squeal at the thick finger your roommate doesn’t even bother to ease in. Rushing the process, thrusting and turning his finger down to the knuckles— you aren’t given time to breathe before he’s prodding a second finger against your hole.

There’s too much pride in him for Beomgyu to admit it’s hot. Because it shouldn’t be— it’s the exact same formula as all the other homemade porn videos that bore him. Especially not with Taehyun in the scene, who’s biting the inside of his cheek with knitted brows, focusing on strumming your clit while fucking your hole with pistoning fingers.

“Fuckfuckfuck yes!—” But he can swear with every single bone in his body that you rile him up to a dangerous extent. Cock twitching painfully after being left to cool in the air as Beomgyu examines each contortion in your expression, length tapping against his stomach in a fiery demand to be stroked. Touched. Buried deep enough inside of you that it’ll make sex with Taehyun feel loose.

He doesn’t recall when he started fucking his cock into the minuscule make-shift hole bunched together by his fist. All that he can focus on is memorising every movement that has you whining louder, needier, the dominance slowly being drained from you as slick protrudes out of your hole and stains the inside of your thighs. He takes advantage of the up close view of your pussy, which flutters around Taehyun’s fingers as he scissors his middle and index deep within your cunt, meanly stretching out your walls with merciless speed. Beomgyu goes as far as to take note of what drives you over the edge: when Taehyun licks along your neck teasingly over and over again without leaving a mark, when he groans into your shoulder and grips your waist to keep you from squirming, and when he digs his hard cock into your ass so you can plead for it.

Pfft. Getting cocky isn’t pretty on him; that goes without saying. But Beomgyu can’t help but scoff at the lacklustre in the brunette’s movement; your roommate doesn’t know what you tell him on your shift. How you like it when you’re in charge. That you get insanely wet when a guy pleads with his eyes— loving how sweet it is to hear your voice come out of their mouth in a girly whine instead of the opposite.

And so he’s following shortly, making a scene of himself as he pulls the edge of his top up to his teeth, pink nipples appearing with a blue-ish tint through the screen as he teases his tip with a finger. Whenever you’d whine, he’d press harder against his slit. A momentum he could catch up with until it became too tempting to bear, head tilting to the side with droopy eyes, breathing shakily as he grips around his base.

“Hnghh-ugh—” The crumpled audio draws your eyes towards the screen again, and fuck, you wish you could take a photo in the moment. Admiring Beomgyu’s softly toned stomach that heaves with each breathy exhale as he fucks his cock, rotating his wrist as he reaches the tip until he feels euphoric enough to squeeze his eyes shut and lean back in defeat.

You’d let him in on a little secret later. A small confession you doubt you’d be on the benefiting side of if you leaked it with Taehyun snug beside you, humping his cock against your ass and cunt until you stained his gym shorts with your essence. Since truthfully said, you’ve only been imagining Beomgyu in his place this entire time, swapping out your roommate’s grunts for his breathy whines. Going as far as to bite down on your lip to refrain from calling out for his name instead of Taehyun’s, soaking your eyes in the lewdness of how he weakly teases his tip until it becomes overbearingly sensitive for him to handle without cumming too soon. You don’t want to end up without someone to share the rent again if you told Taehyun that you were only throbbing around his fingers because your eyes were trained on Gyu.

“That’s it princess, clench around my fingers. It’s not enough, is it? You wanna be fucked stupid by a cock.” You do so on command, squeezing around his fingers as he prolongs pressing his finger against your gummy walls, the bliss of it coming down on you immediately as you throw your head back onto his shoulder.

“Ngh—Beomgyu holy shit—”

It’s comedic how time slows for everybody in that second alone. Your eyes widen, Beomgyu’s most likely wider as he whines, cumming almost instantly all over his screen and his thighs, thick seed continuing to drip moments after the initial climax.

And Taehyun? He pulls out his fingers altogether, frustration crashing upon you completely in the form of complaints and desperate whines that you’re immediately muting the second you face him.

“Where’s your head at hm? Are you trying to tick me off?” Taehyun’s leaning towards the camera before you can butt in another word, running his hand through his hair as he observes the mess Beomgyu’s made all over himself with null amusement.

Within the awkward period of silence, the brunette swipes his fingers between your folds, collecting your juices on his fingers while giving you a short-lived taste of pleasure since he last removed his touch from within you completely.

It’s strange, out of the norm for someone like Taehyun really, and your confusion lands and translates in Beomgyu’s body language as well as he inches closer towards his screen in unison. His eyes are slowly bewitched by what Taehyun has to show him, drawing his fingers close until the camera focuses.

The male spreads apart his fingers, chuckling obscenely so as he flaunts the lengthy strands of clear slick attached between his thumb and index in a giant web of arousal. Hell, for a second Beomgyu couldn’t tell if he was being sly or trying to tempt another orgasm out of him, until he opens his mouth, of course.

“Sorry man, I’d really like to get to know you better, but I’ve got your girl on my hands waiting to be shown some attention—”

“Taehyun you can’t—!”

“W-what?” The call ends without a second to negotiate, the second ring even goes straight to ‘missed’ when he tries. Left looking blankly at his cum-splattered screen opened up on your chat messages without a pitiful bye other than the harsh ‘read’ receipt he’s on the receiving end of. Wondering whether your roommate is mocking his confused, mixed with desperate, question marks. On top of the empty ‘next time?’ left unanswered while he’s most likely already balls deep inside of you, as he said.

“What the hell? She’s fuck buddies with a guy like that?” It makes his blood boil almost, the fumes huffing out his nose and his brows raised in disapproval as he hurriedly wipes off the screen until it’s decently clean of stains.

Beomgyu can’t even process what your girl friends would even think of him, a walking mass of red flags that correlate with what you all typed out in your little group chat, and he has the honours of being able to hit first.

A headache is one thing he’s dealing with, and the buzz of a notification he can already sense is Kai complaining about the small lie he told him will only make it feel like an extra bullet to the pain…

Or not! Definitely not when he gets a good look at the notification that he totally doesn’t rub his eyes thrice to check if he’s seeing it clearly, your message left sweetly on the panel, although it has to be deciphered due to all the typos. Not that he can complain about you getting your back blown out by your roommate, who he really doesn’t like, since he’s thrilled you even managed to remember him in the middle of it all anyway.

You don’t leave an emoji this time, or the small ‘x’s and emoticons. A sentence short and simple enough to remember for the rest of his days.

‘Come over to my place next time. Want it to be just us.’

Tuesdays are plain boring, and while it’s not mundane work like stocking up the shelves, any shift that you’re not working alongside him means that ten hours actually feels like ten instead of four. In fact he’s not exactly on close terms with anyone who clocks in for Tuesdays. For any sane person, Tuesday is the sole day of the week everyone could collaterally agree should be eradicated, serving no purpose at all other than being pointless. No customers, caffeine-functioning robots Beomgyu calls coworkers, the day taking its sweet-sweet time to overturn into night. The only positive he can list off the top of his head is that Yeonjun doesn’t work on Tuesdays, and he’d rather sacrifice himself into endless boredom than have a pounding headache for a shift with him.

Well, he doesn’t really know how to go about his day without you there monitoring him and directing him on the right path instead of a beeline towards the beer. Sort of like loitering around waiting for someone to assign him a task that’ll never happen because Tuesdays never had any foot traffic into the store to begin with. So he’ll hang around the aisles, scavenging for any good offers and hiding his favourite colours of things he wants in compartments so that no one else can snatch them before the end of his shift.

He probably needs to—

“Hey man, mind if you tell me where something is?”

Could he call it survival instincts? Beomgyu’s not entirely sure, but the familiarity of the voice he can’t quite put a pin on is enough to send shivers down his spine. Fuck, it’d be less embarrassing for him to run away than to stiffly unfold himself out of his crouching position after being caught looking at the lego sets. Eyes constantly glued to the floor before he musters up the courage to make eye contact with Taehyun— “Taehyun?!”

Sign him up for a reflex competition or something along those lines, because Beomgyu’s never slapped a hand over his mouth so quickly to cover up a slip of tongue; the speed itself is impressive.

“Sorry?”

“U-uhm I can try find it for you. W-what is that you’re looking for?”

The brunette is slightly shorter than he imagined, yet it’s overlooked by how striking he is in person compared to how…attractive he still was over the phone. The huddle of coworkers peeking from behind the aisle to spy on him ready to jump for an opportunity to service the guy says it all neatly and concisely.

Other than his appearance, it hits him harder that your roommate doesn’t seem to recollect him at all, cocking an eyebrow as if it were Beomgyu’s first day on Earth with how he nervously sweats and stiffly stands with his arms by his side.

“You’ll end up cramping a muscle if you keep standing like that. Relax.” Taehyun pats a hand against his shoulder, offering a subsidiary smile out of politeness he’d probably withdraw once he figured out that Beomgyu was the guy he ended the call on the other day. “Mind if you could point me to where the condoms are?—”

“—In my back pocket.”

“What?”

Now Beomgyu’s having second thoughts on agreeing to what you messaged him last time. Anything to avoid facing your roommate headfirst after revealing he has condoms tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. Two, to be precise.

After all, it was you who suggested you’d pick him up after work today. It’s just his luck that he crossed paths with your roommate on the job, slipping up his words one after the other until it came to painting himself as some pervert who packs condoms to work.

“Haha…ha! I’m just playing with you…man?— T-they’re next to the vitamins on the aisle next to the toiletries.” Ugh, and if it couldn’t get worse, Taehyun completely airs the fist bump he gives (which he somehow thought was a good idea in the moment) so Beomgyu ends up jabbing the side of his arm awkwardly.

“Gotcha—”

“A-actually I think we ran out.” At this point, there’s no turning back. Not when he lets his mouth run all in the hopes that the condoms your roommate’s buying aren’t for you. Beomgyu would consider buying out all the sizes, brands and weird flavours of condoms as long as the brunette goes back to the apartment empty handed and cockblocked by him.

“Of condoms?”

“Yeah, y-yeah a group of guys came by earlier and bought the whole lot. Freaky..I know. What did you need them for a-again?”

‘What did you need them for?’ If you were right next to him watching how he was handling customers you’d probably kick him in the shin for the utter stupidity drooling from his lips.

“Surely that’s against store policy.” Taehyun doesn’t do much other than look around, scroll on his phone for a while before closing it up nicely with a toothy smile, which Beomgyu swears the squeals that followed after were not out of pure coincidence.

“Sorry… I can check in the back—"

“No need.” He’s already retreating backwards while focused on his phone before Beomgyu could try fix up the terrible customer service he’s ever put his name to shame for, only managing to reach the end of the aisle before he stops completely. A smirk tugs on his lips, in a heart rattling sense more than a heart throbbing one, to which his heart stops beating completely when his phone notifies him with an airdrop.

A single attachment, from ‘Kang Taehyun’ at the very top. To open it? He doesn’t dare. Not until his curiosity breaches the limit and he’s quickly downloading the blurry thumbnail as it loads slowly, but surely. And there goes the famous saying in all its glory: curiosity kills the cat.

Beomgyu only needs a second to process the video before he hides his screen against his shirt, peeking around both sides of his head and even behind to check if anyone else saw what happened to have appeared on his phone.

Downsized into a small video attachment is a clip of you, completely in ruins with your hair tangled and knotted by Taehyun’s rough grip mere inches away from your scalp. Your makeup is streaky, natural skin appearing through which appears to be burning with tears, and lips pursed and wet with spit that collects under your lip messily. The cherry on top is your cheekbones that slightly protrude as you hollow your cheeks, deepthroating Taehyun’s cock to the best of your ability with glossy and wincing eyes. Lips suctioning around him as you bat your wet lashes prettily, latching onto the mauve cockhead trying to clean all the cum off Taehyun’s dick.

For the first time in his life, Beomgyu’s glad that he works the Tuesday shifts. Where there are barely any customers for anyone to notice he’s sneaking himself into the men’s toilets. Deep into the late hours when his coworkers are all too tired to notice the slight rise in his pants.

It doesn’t even hit him immediately that Taehyun caught on to who he was in the end; the airdropped video seems less of a threat and more of a reward if you ask him. But he’ll consider it as punishment for what he’ll put the video to use for later.

“So, did Tamsyn give you an earful?” Leaning over the console, you try to lock eyes with Beomgyu as he buckles himself into the car, pushing away the hair covering his eyes to finally jam in the seatbelt after missing it twice.

“Nah, your roommate did actually.” Ruffled up in his signature jeans that are torn at the ankles and a print-ironed tee from years ago, he’s not exactly in ‘first date’ couture. Having to settle with a tiny dressing room his limbs could barely squeeze into the second his shift ended wasn’t ideal.

You’re the first to tuck back the stray strand bothering him, thumb brushing over his ear as you speak. “Mhm, sounds about right. You look good though considering you just came out of a Tuesday shift.” Perhaps Yeonjun was right about anything other than Friday and the weekend being unsexy.

Beomgyu laughs— airily, in that sort of awkward but understandable tone practically screaming out to you that he’s trying to shut down all the pathways to his brain and nerves so he can put being tense on autopilot. Which means instinctively lifting up the compartment to check for the gum he forgot Yeonjun took the last strip of in his own car, and trying to turn on the radio which you immediately intercept.

“If you turn it on that’s basically telling me you want me to shut up and die.” Extreme, but he enjoys the sarcasm between you as he shifts in his seat, completely in a daze other than knowing it’s a date at your place.

“Don’t be dramatic, turning on the radio means I love you—” Déjà vu hits him like a bitch now more than it ever has before. The same screeching of tyres at a red light, the lengthy minute of silence neither of you wants to be the first to break, and the thoughts processing whatever the fuck he just said. “…Enough to share my great…music taste.”

“Didn’t take you for a radio guy.” You laugh it off so easily, brushing over the poorly-saved confession like knocking dust off your shoulder. Sweetly turning on the radio anyway to satisfy him even though the song that comes on has been the same formula of pop overplayed to the point he can’t help but hate it. “Besides, being dramatic is the passenger princess’ job.”

“What piece of clothing do I have to take off to bet that Yeonjun made you think so?” Snorting, Beomgyu almost forgets that this isn’t one of your conversations at work where words just flow through his mouth, suddenly starting to feel comfortable again in your company. He doesn’t even realise that his head has been turned 90 degrees on the dot just burning holes into the side of your face with his gaze for the past minute, all of a sudden rocking back shyly to retreat into his own zone.

Not that it’s effective in any sense, he still finds himself peeking out the corner of his eye to catch a glimpse. Noticing the length of your lashes from the side as they’re peeled open to focus on the road, the subtle blush you chose to put on today that softens up your cheeks, and the slight bob in your throat that goes to show you’re just about as nervous as he is.

“This is how openings to serial killer movies start by the way.” It’s sickening. You’re sickening. Just the way you smile after catching him staring out in the open is enough to make him feel sick to his stomach with butterflies. And as gross and cheesy as it may sound, he can’t find words to describe the feeling without sounding even more like an Italian love connoisseur. “I guess it could be romantic too though Gyu, what do you think?”

“Stick with serial killers.”

Your smirk only widens despite the raspberry you blow with your tongue at his boring answer. “No fun Gyu, get out of the car you loser!” He’s an inch away from kissing your window as you hurriedly push him out the door, following right behind him as you climb out of your seat, arms stretched to wake yourself up out of the driving drowsiness.

“I was thinking I’d cook for us. I mean, how does steak and wine sound? Or does that make me sound obviously more broke than actually going out to a restaurant?” Beomgyu doesn’t know what to answer other than a nod or a shake, suddenly choosing to distance himself from you by a metre as if he’s some sort of puritan. “Jeez Gyu you’re gonna make this date feel one-sided if you don’t try to even walk onto the first step of the stairs until I’m on the tenth.” Grasping him by the hand, you drag him with all your might to draw him closer, until your back and his chest were by definition, touching.

“I’ll eat whatever you cook, on Yeonjun’s life.”

“Pfft, doesn’t sound convincing when you carelessly throw around Yeonjun’s life like he’s fodder.” Both of you are out of breath by the time you reach your apartment. The elevator became a no-go when you told Beomgyu that walking out of it would leave both of you testing positive for multiple class A drugs and perhaps an airborne std if that exists. On top of the two of you running your mouths loud enough for the whole complex to hear you joking and bumping shoulders as you laughed too hard for what wasn’t even that hilarious.

“Aaaandd welcome to my apartment, date! Don’t mind the shoes, I thought I told Taehyun to tidy them up.” Kicking off your shoes, you don’t even register where they’ll end up, or that one of them was a second away from being stuck on top of your lampshade. Your shoulders immediately loosen up, making rounds to the kitchen before he does so you could steal the cuter apron before he could.

“Nice? Shit? You can tell me it’s shit, it’s alright. I’ll blame it on the little grumpy man today.”

“Grumpy man?” Beom’s eyebrows raise in confusion before ultimately concluding that you were rambling about Taehyun, only able to slip in a few mumbles before you finish tying your apron.

“Mind helping me with the mushroom sauce? It’ll be less boring than watching me cook for an hour, trust me.”

Okay, before anyone can judge. Beomgyu’s not known to be some sort of Michelin chef— or just a chef, by any means. But a sauce doesn’t sound nearly as impossible as whatever you were busying yourself with, already in the element of arranging the peppercorn spices and herbs ready.

Well that’s what both of you originally thought. Except who would’ve known that Beomgyu would end up burning the pan after turning the heat on too high, or that you’d end up with rosemary in your hair and flavourless mushroom sauce splattered all over his jeans by the end of it.

“Hah!— What the hell? How did you even get it on your cheek?” You’re rubbing off mushroom sauce from his face with your thumb by the end of it, a meal gone to hell far away from your portfolios. “I think we should just order takeout—”

“Dom’s!”

“Whoa! Hold your horses, I know you wanna dom this time but I—”

“W-what no?! The small pizza place near the parking lot— I saw the sign for it earlier.” It’s cute how frantic he is, flailing his hands all over the place to explain himself.

“I’m just playing Gyu, but I’m like a hundred percent sure that’s a money laundering scheme.” You quiet down for a bit, scrolling through your phone to search for another pizza place that could serve your failed homemade meal a slap to the face.

“U-uhm, is it a bad time to ask why Taehyun’s upset?” Beomgyu hopes you don’t take offense to it, but he’s already backing up behind the counter in case you were about to lose your mind recalling the events.

“If you ran into him at work today then you probably would’ve been able to tell he’s throwing a big-ball tantrum.” You lean your back against the counter, careful to not dip your elbow into the sauce as you sigh out, and if you were trying to catch his attention for another gossip sesh again, then Beomgyu is all ears. “I cut off the whole fuckbuddies thing, I’m lucky he’s only pissed because I didn’t tell him I was bored with it sooner.”

“Hold on— b-but, why? You guys were—!”

“Why else Gyu?” As you circle around the counter, your fingers are busy undoing the knot behind your apron, pursing your lips as his name rolls off your tongue smoothly. “I wanna take things seriously now, between us.”

Beomgyu’s breath hitches when you lean into the crevice of space below his chin, the hot breath fanning against his adam’s apple making it difficult for him to speak, let alone comprehend anything that came out of your mouth.

“I’m saying I think you’re cute Gyu, hear that?” The soft giggles that press like peppered kisses against his neck make his legs feel weak, ready to collapse onto the floor if it weren’t for the way you’re hovering close enough to trap him in.

“Y-yeah.” If you thought Beomgyu was blushing when he turned pink then you’re a liar, because he’s burning bright red with a palm covering his face as if to stop a nosebleed. Trembling excitedly but too shy and scared of screwing it all up to move anything apart from the eager nod of his head, exhaling shakily before snaking his arms around your hips to draw you in closer.

Heavy, shallow breaths. You can hear it in the gap between your lips, the thump of his heart, or yours, between them— an internal monologue of your own urging you to lean in and kiss him like you’ve been wanting to. Tangling your fingers into his hair to lure him in closer, suckling on the corner of his lips for an entrance to dive in your tongue against his, the heat lingering as you lick along his bottom lip. You nibble on the soft fat, tugging down on his flesh to let yourself in more freely, kissing his teeth while he lets you lead him into your touch. His lips feel plump against yours, the smallest hint of sweetness to them as you knock him into a couple of chairs while trying to navigate back to your room, hands sliding down to caress his upper cheek where his lashes flutter against your thumb.

In that moment alone, neither of you wanted to separate yourselves, only taking small breaths in between kisses before delving back into his mouth, kissing along his jaw and licking down to his adam’s apple to which he hums at.

“Off, hurry—” With your fingers curling under his waistband, he wastes no time in undoing the zipper of his jeans, letting the denim bunch up on the floor into a messy pile of your own top and bra. There’s only so much time that you have to strip yourself before he’s patiently waiting at the edge of the bed, round eyes awestruck by the swell of your tits as you place your palms over his knees, parting his legs to give you space to kneel between.

“I still can’t get used to this you know,” your hands run up his thighs in light, feathery touches, sending shivers down his spine as you cup your hand around the base, “it looks bigger than it did on camera.” Forming a loop with your fingers, you gently jerk him off to just below the tip, squeezing around the vein slightly to urge out the precum from his slit.

One hand flies to cover his mouth, losing it completely as he tries to hold your wrist still, halting it from moving altogether while he tries to bite back his moans. “Don’t t-tease me—”

“Heghh?” In a tone so innocent it sounds unfit for how your tongue sticks out dangerously close to his tip, you smile at Beomgyu with your eyes, crescent-like and sparkly with dirty intentions. Your nails barely scratch along the sensitive vein, the stinging pain driving him insane as his eyes twitch in pleasure, back straightening stiff as you press the flat of your tongue against his cockhead.

Warmth clouds him as you trail the slit with the wet muscle, fingers clawing against the sheets and loosening when you pull away, only to tighten again when he spots the string of saliva bridging your tongue and his pearly-wet cock. “W-wait baby—”

“You’re getting comfortable already.” You peek up at him through your lashes. All bug-eyed and seductive as you lead the eye contact, squeezing around the base of his cock again as a cheat to win, knowing that he’d immediately flinch and shut his eyes. “You wanna get your cock sucked so bad, don’t you Gyu?”

Making him feel dizzy with lust isn’t a challenge when all that it takes is playing a pout on your lips, jutting out the bottom fat as you whine just staring at his size. Wrapping your hands around him and licking at where your fingers join back round again is enough to send his head reeling, because he’s forced to see the way your fingers can’t wrap around the girth entirely, relying on your nails to bridge the gap.

Without warning, you finally clasp around him completely, jerking him off at an excruciating speed. In that absent-minded head of his you doubt he can even register the surroundings, struggling to keep up with every one of your moments at once as he gasps, feeling you lick a wet stripe along the underside of his cock.

“G-gah!—” Hearing his tiny mewls only fuels the heat growing between your legs, starting to feel sticky in your panties, uncomfortably rubbing your thighs together to gather some sort of friction which inevitably leaves you moaning against his cock. “Feels weird when you— mngh, do that.”

“You’re so cute Gyu, bet you’re sensitive here too.” You hum against his tip, thrusting your fist vertically along his cock while the other hand pinches his thigh, a smile forming across your face when he jolts up and bucks his cock into your lips.

His whines drag on only to grow in volume as you tug on his balls, shifting your weight into your arm as you jerk him off to the side, leaving enough room for your head to lean in and lick along the length. The tip bruises a deep pink as you lather it in spit, lubing it with a sheen gloss of your saliva to glide your palm along his dick, wrist rotating as you jerk him towards the tip.

“I like it when you’re obedient like this, whining so loudly when you haven’t even felt my throat yet.” You coo at him as you give sweet little kitten licks, fingers bumping against your lips where you peppered soft kisses against his vein. His cock feels heavy in your hands as he throbs in your touch, head thrown back and kissing his teeth in constraint, trying ever so desperately to hold back from pushing his cock past your lips.

“P-please just fuck— suck me off already, I don’t think I can hold ngh!— h-hold on for much longer.” Anyone else, and you probably would’ve leaned towards tormenting them a bit more. Though when you look up expecting to see him frustrated, you genuinely can’t strip your gaze from the way his eyes appear to be brimming with tears. Soft sniffles attempting to hide the desperation cracking through his voice as he leans his head back to hide the humiliatingly needy expression. Even if it’s present everywhere in his body language. The hands gripping his sheets until his knuckles burn white, his lip that’s been bitten so many times the blood has flushed them a rosy pink, and the way his body arches in as his stomach tenses whenever you tease him with your tongue.

So you reward him on a generous note this time, guiding yourself towards the tip of his cock as you try to measure out how far your lips would have to stretch to take him in. The corners of your lips burn as you try cover your teeth from scraping him, struggling to fit anything past the cockhead before your jaw begins to ache.

“O-oh ffuck—” This time, Beomgyu seriously can’t peel his eyes open for the life of him, knowing better than to stare straight down at you struggling to mould your lips around his cock.

Anyone else in his position wouldn’t be able to hold back from cumming in their pants when your breath is constantly fanning against him as your lips leave him for a breather. Nonetheless, you manage to reach just above halfway before your throat dries up from the stretch, choosing to jerk off whatever was left with your first, squeezing extra tight near the base. On instinct he thrusts his hips into your mouth, helping you adjust to the size slightly as you find a tempo to follow, bobbing your head up and down until a hitch in your throat causes you to gag.

“S-shit... feels— fucking amazing.” A compliment wrapped under a hushed whisper. He doubts you even managed to hear it when the lewd sound of his cock ploughing down your throat is all that you can focus on to keep you on track.

As you begin to settle around him, you hasten the pace unexpectedly, managing to reach further than you ever had to start with as you vigorously twist your hand around the base. With your other hand, you try to hide your attempt at snaking your hand out of sight and hidden between the flesh of your thighs, rubbing small circles around your clit until the pleasure causes your lashes to flutter.

By which it wasn’t a successful attempt at all in any sense since Beomgyu caught you in the act, gaze following your hands as they draw out small shapes along your folds, pressing the flat fingerpads against the wet patch in your panties as you whimper around him. It drives him over the edge more than anything. Suddenly feeling the knot start to tighten as your tongue swirls around his cock, leaving your spit dripping from his cock in thick, foamy blobs as you make a mess around your mouth.

“Let me cum i-inside please pretty, just this once—” You can’t find it in you to detach your lips from him as you grow obsessed with the pain of the stretch, choosing to hum and rub down his inner thigh as a yes while you purse your lips at the tip. Forearm aching as you squeeze harder around his cock trying to jerk him off faster, letting the sensitive cockhead twitch against your tongue as you tease the slit repeatedly.

“Mngh— w-who taught you that fffuck—” Clutching your hair in his hands, Beomgyu can barely catch his breath, automatically pushing down on your head to choke you further down his cock. His grip on your scalp is nasty, pain soaring through you as it delves into the territory of pleasure, causing you to yelp at the sting, a second away from needing to catch your breath.

Right in the middle of a moan, he’s locking your head airtight in place to spurt hot cum down your throat, buckling his cock into your throat still post-release like aftershocks. Sweat pearls along his forehead and drips down his temples, breath unstable and shaky as he blinks away his orgasm in bliss, slowly releasing his grip around your hair to caress along your cheek instead.

“A-ack! Sorry, I didn’t mean to hold onto your hair like t—”

“Seems like you want to take the lead this time Gyu, you wanna be in charge this time?” Lifting yourself off sore knees, you prowl towards him, pinning him further back along the bed to gauge his reaction in amusement.

Beomgyu doesn’t even try to hide how the thought excites him, eyes blown wide once more as a blush spreads along his face just thinking about it. Thinking about how he’ll fuck you harder than Taehyun can, read far enough to breach your womb where Taehyun can’t, stretch you out like he’s been dreaming of, feeling you clench around him for space.

Too eager to even give you a proper response, he’s already shifting ahead to lean against the pillows, dragging you by the arm with enough force to land you right in his lap. At first, you thought the stunt was on purpose— trying to hold down your hips in place so he could dig his newly rock-hard boner again against your panties. Or at least you thought so until you grasped the slight hiss that emerges from him. Noticing how his grip immediately loosens as he remains sensitive from his last orgasm, his eyes glossy for a mere second before they return to a more serious gaze, determined to take the lead this time.

“Gonna guide me will I ride your cock? Is that what you want Gyu?—” Originally, you had more to say, enjoying ticking him off like a time bomb to get him to snap. And when he does, he’s merciless as he hooks your panties to the side. Unbothered with wasting any time on stripping you completely when all that you’ve clouded his mind with are sinful, ravenous thoughts.

Slipping his finger under the band of your panties, he pulls back the band to snap the fabric near your inner thigh. The sight leaves him licking his lips watching the way your dripping folds leak with your arousal, cunt clenching desperately around nothing. Even running a finger between the slit is enough to have him groaning as he pushes a finger inside, giving the smallest window of time for you to adjust before he adds another.  

Luring you into a trap of his own while he focuses on bruising his knuckles against your walls, curling them torturously slow as he stretches you out by a bare margin. Another hand focused on massaging the soft plump of your ass, kneading it in his palm as he sinks his fingers into it, tugging your cheeks apart to spread your ass before gliding down towards your cunt.

“Enough gyu just— hah, put it in already—”

Lowly, he chuckles. The sinister cast overtaking him almost sounds like a stranger in his body as your pussy throbs seeing him smile slyly, as if he were omniscient in the fact that you’d be regretting it soon enough if you got ahead of yourself like you are now.

“Trust me pretty, listen when I say you need a third finger for it not to hurt.” By the very look in his eyes, it's obvious he’s talking from experience, and it makes your stomach churn at the thought as you wrap your hand around his cock again. To measure the size beforehand, a slight precaution that was bearable to withstand when you took him in your mouth, but seeing the girth of it poking out from beneath you only made your spine shiver at the thought.

“Mngh— j-just hurry up then!” It would’ve been helpful to know that feeding ‘hurry up’ into Beomgyu’s ear means that he understands it as a command to absolutely brute his fingers through your cunt. The size of all three fingers practically mimics Taehyun’s cock rather than a bit of finger action to ease you in, slick coating his fingers as the wet, sloppy sound squelches from below.

“G-Gyu no you need to a-agh! stop or else I’ll cum too soon ohmygod—” Your back feels sore from trying to hold up your posture while your legs render themselves into jelly, managing to slip yourself a proper breath when he pulls the triad of fingers out of you. To make matters worse for your lustmeter, he’s licking up every crevice and surface of his fingers, tasting you on his tongue before popping his fingers out of his lips altogether.

“You’d taste even better if you let me cum inside.”

“I’ll reward you with it if you put on a good show.” You steady your legs with whatever energy you had left, hovering just above to give Beomgyu space to prod his tip against your entrance, the imprint of his cock becoming vivid in your memory as he eases it inside.

Slow, sure, but any faster and you genuinely would be in consideration for the emergency room if you happened to rip. He’s barely encased himself between your folds when you’re clutching onto his shoulders the next second, digging your nails into his skin subconsciously. “S-shit baby, don’t clench around me—”

“I’m not!!” No matter how long you must’ve prepped for, the pain still hits you like a damn bitch. Yelping through every inch you manage to take in, head hanging low to bite down on your lip as if that would hide any sign of struggle. Beomgyu’s quick to groan in response, head spinning just thinking about how tight you were even without clamping down on him. Suddenly feeling conscious of whether he’d be able to refrain from cumming too soon if you happened to have clenched around him.

Weight falls onto his shoulder as you rest your forehead on the broad surface, eyes shut as you whine, feeling unlike yourself considering you usually have no issue with sliding it in in the first place. “Doing so well pretty, you’re nearly there.” Beomgyu’s damn well a liar, because you haven’t even reached halfway when he’s drawing small circles on your back, grinning widely from the ego boost alone, knowing that no one else has managed to have you fall apart on their cocks quite literally as he has.

Perhaps what he has planned next is a little mean, but Beomgyu promises he’ll make it up to you in aftercare once he does this. “A-aah! G-Gyu too much!” You cry out loud into his shoulder, feeling way too full to try squirming away in case you’d rip, wanting to bite down on his skin for pushing your hips down onto him.

“Shhh, that’s a good girl. Let me guide you through it pretty— as you said.” His breath against your ear causes you to flinch, pulling away to flash the fat tears brewing in the corner of your eyes hoping to gain some sort of sympathy for yourself. Yet all that you’re left with is the violent throb of his cock as he pulses against your walls, the additional stimulation driving you over the edge as you automatically rock your hips to chase the feeling.

“Hnnngh— Gyu…I can’t move, curse you for being so big what the hell!?” Balling your hand into a fist, you lightly knock it against his chest as a light punishment in your own terms. Before ultimately pushing your tits against the lean muscle, the flesh feels sore as it smushes against him.

“I know, I know sweetheart just let me handle it.” Diving his hands to grab support of your thighs, lifting the weight to guide you up his cock. Groans falling in a non-stop current from his lips from how you suction around him so hard it becomes difficult to breathe.

Desire overtakes him as he thrusts you back down onto his cock with brute force, choking your cunt by overloading it with his girth as you cry out his name. You lose control over your legs completely, the limbs practically deadweight by now as you try to recover from the shock of being slammed back down onto him— balls deep and relentless.

He’s never been the type to fuck around until something works, particularly rhythmless with no exact tempo he’s limited by other than repeatedly throttling you down onto his cock. To which the tip kisses your cervix without even making any effort, managing to hit each spongy-sweet spot without having to try, and that’s what has your craving for seconds.

Finally gaining the courage to lean your weight onto your hands, the arch of your back unintentionally creates the perfect angle for his cock to poke jaggedly along your walls. Each thrust and even target against the same dent inside the lining of your womb stealing you of breath while your eyes roll beyond the back of your head, the overhead light starting to distort in your sight as the pleasure takes over your thoughts.

“Fuckfuckfuck Gyu! M-more!—” It’s impossible not to start babbling random erotic-coated thoughts when he’s curiously pressing his palm against your pussy pouch, the additional pressure driving you past your limits as you tremble erratically.

Beomgyu gives in to your wishes without a problem, grabbing hold of a tighter grip on your hips as he rocks your cunt against his pelvis, clit bumping roughly against his skin in desperation for release. Every stroke of his cock stretches you out in an addictive cycle of pain-filled pleasure, leaving you biting down onto your lip so harshly you can taste metal on your tongue, moving on your own without thinking as Beomgyu pushes you through to orgasm.

The echo of your wanton moans filling up whatever space is left in the room that isn’t the smell of sex doesn’t hinder Beomgyu from slowing down. He’s without a doubt burning through every energy store in his body just to completely brute his way through to your orgasm. His own stamina is at the very bottom of his concerns when the screwed-up expression on your face is all he needs to keep himself going.

Detaching a hand from one of your hips, he indulges himself in reaching up to grope your tits, sighing out in content as he watches the flesh spill out through the gaps between his fingers. And God, it’s these little additions he does on pure subconsciousness that have you throbbing around him desperately, each pulsation a cry out for him to drawl out your orgasm quickly.

“Y-you close yet pretty? Can feel you throbbing like crazy—”

Too embarrassed to admit it, you settle for a meek nod, the kind of obedience that has Beomgyu wanting to plummet his hips into you harder. Until you can’t think of anyone but him, marking the shape of his cock and every ridge and vein into your walls so that you’d only suffocate around him so snugly.

He doesn’t mind being struck by lightning if it means he can be a little greedy just this once. Stationing your hips in place to constantly hurl his pelvis against your folds, the plapping of your drenchedfolds making contact with his pelvis spiralling him into an endless rabbit hole of being enamoured by the warmth of your cunt engulfing him. The fat cockhead continues to repeatedly nudge against your g-spot ever so meanly, the stimulation making you see stars as you dumbly mumble his name over and over again in need.

“Cumming! O-oh my god ‘m cumming!” Your body tenses up as you tremble in his hold, pussy throbbing along the vein of his cock as you slowly ride out your orgasm, hands pinning him down as a smile weakly smears itself across your features. “Go on Gyu, cum inside it’s okay.”

You probably didn’t think much of it when you raspily urged him, just talking out of pure post-orgasm bliss most likely. But Beomgyu’s spilling his seed inside of you before you could even finish of your sentence, the warm fluid filling up and expanding your cunt as it spills down the side of his cock. Not enough space for it to stay buried inside without Beomgyu reluctantly pulling out and shoving his cum back inside with his fingers, eyes in awe just from glancing at how your hole remains stretched out so prettily for him.

“We didn’t even end up using the condoms I bought…and I-I don’t think I can go back to only seeing your cunt over the screen again.” A hand wipes off the sweat accumulating on your face, a bubbly laugh emerging from you as you pat him down to lay him on the bed again.

“Move in with me then, need to give Taehyun a constant reminder that the walls are thin, don’t you think?”

txt perma tag !! :

@gyutaepie @ruinxas @gyuuchuuu @chocomoas @satan-223 @whoisgami @glitteryheartbanana @bambiihee @asteroidshowers @camryn-haitani @prkhaven @yvampyr @filmnings @bloomri @lwhyuka @angelhyuka @forwinterstars @yjnwonstars @black-startxt @iheartyaemiko @hyunj00 @fancypeacepersona @page-isa @hwangjoanna @star0323 @nanilis @lorislane @basicallyanothernotebook @soohashits @missdel @swangyu @petulapetula @twinklingsparkling @dainsleif-when-playable @toastmenace @izzyy-stuff @hoonstqr @wonf1lmd @namimommii @swangyu @beomgyusluver @kookieterry

fic taglist !! : @beomelmyu @ruinxas @gyuhaze @amoebeom @beomfait @woahwoahwoahummmmm @matchacake2 @teezglitter

[yeonjune]

YEONJUN ✙ 'NO LABELS: PART 01' Jacket Behind The Scenes #3

[words-in-purple]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ virgin playboy | choi yeonjun | lesson one

synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.

✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader

✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, virgin/inexperience themes, anxiety/second-hand embarrassment

✧ word count: 10.8k

✧ status: completed

✧ playlist | series masterlist | main masterlist

soobin: back next month soobin: wanna go for dinner? soobin: i’ve missed you

You stare at the screen until your eyes start to sting. Dinner. A normal word. A normal plan. A normal boy you’ve wanted for an unreasonable amount of time.

You should be thrilled. Your chest does flutter—soft, stupid, familiar. Then your stomach drops, because the version of you Soobin thinks he’s meeting at that dinner is not you.

Not really.

You’ve wanted him since you were sixteen and he was already the kind of boy teachers praised too eagerly and girls liked too openly. You wanted him while he had a girlfriend—pretty, polished, untouchable—so you learned how to want him quietly. You got good at it. You made it a background process in your life. A hidden tab.

Then university happened. He went to Switzerland on exchange. You told yourself it was a clean ending.

Distance didn’t end it. It loosened you. Because somehow, over the last few months, Soobin started talking. Properly talking.

Not just polite check-ins. Not just how’s class? and did you eat today? but messages that didn’t stop at midnight. Calls that started as five minutes and ended with the sky lightening outside your window. A private, dangerous kind of closeness where he starts saying your name a little slower, a little softer, until you can’t pretend it’s nothing.

It starts as flirting. Then it turns into sexting. 

And you—who have no business to—kept up.

Because you were safe behind a screen. Because he was far away. Because your thumbs were braver than your body. Because he kept responding like he wanted more.

You didn’t just flirt. You performed. You told him you weren’t shy. You told him you’d done things. You told him you were good at things. You told him a body count that sounded impressive instead of honest. 

And he believed you.

Your phone buzzes again before your brain can recover.

soobin: i want your mouth soobin: i’m serious about dinner soobin: and i’m serious about what you promised me

Your throat goes dry so fast it hurts. You sit up, duvet sliding down your waist, and for a second you’re too hot in your own skin. Your heart is loud. Your hands are damp.

Promised.

That’s the word that ruins everything, because you didn’t just talk. You bragged.

You scroll up.

You don’t want to. You do it anyway, thumb dragging the chat back through weeks of late nights and bad decisions. There you are—bold, filthy, fearless on paper.

you: i’m not going to be sweet about it you: i’ll get on my knees if you ask you: i’m good at swallowing. don’t underestimate me you: i can take you you: i won’t tap out

You stare at your own messages with a slow, horrified disbelief, as if someone else typed them. Someone with experience. Someone with practice. Someone with a real history and not—you stop.

Because the truth is humiliating in its simplicity.

You have never given anyone head in your life. You have never even seen a dick in real life that wasn’t in a medical diagram or an accidental photo someone flashed in a groupchat.

Your lips have kissed exactly one boy in your entire life and it barely counts. Year Four. A snotty boy with glasses. A thank-you kiss meant for his cheek. You misjudged the angle and pecked him on the mouth. You remember the sound he made—half gasp, half offended squeak. The way you both froze, staring at each other with the shared expression of two people who’d just committed a felony. The way you ran home and swore off boys forever, as if you’d been personally wronged by God.

You, age nine—already dramatic. You, age twenty-one—still dramatic. But now with consequences. Real ones.

Your phone buzzes again.

soobin: you’re not going to ghost me now, right? soobin: i’ve been counting down soobin: i want you

You make a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a noise of actual pain. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice thin.

Your brain starts sprinting ahead without you. Dinner, walking you home, his hand at your waist, him leaning in with confidence because you taught him to expect it. And you—you going rigid. You kissing him back wrong. You revealing yourself in the worst, most embarrassing way—not with a confession, but with your body freezing because it doesn’t know what to do.

You toss your phone onto the bed like it’s cursed. Then you grab it again immediately, because you’re weak and because seeing his name does something soft and stupid to your chest.

You type. Delete. Type again. Delete again.

You draft confidence and erase it. Draft flirtation and erase it. Draft something filthy—something that matches the girl you pretended to be—and erase it so hard your thumb aches.

Finally you type, yeah.

One word. Small. Safe. Harmless. A lie, considering the persona you’ve been feeding him at 2am.

You hover over send and consider adding something bolder. A wink. A threat. A promise. Your fear wins. You hit send. The message delivers.

You stare at it in silence for two seconds. Then you smack your forehead with the heel of your hand hard enough to make your eyes water.

“Why did I lie?” you whisper to the empty room.

No one answers. The room just holds you there—sitting upright in your bed with your phone in your hand, realising you have officially talked yourself into a situation you do not know how to survive.

Your friends answer instead—because they always do, and never gently. Cute little vultures with groupchats.

It’s Thursday night—which means someone’s flat, music too loud, cheap alcohol poured into plastic cups, bodies pressed into every corner of a living room. The air tastes of vape, perfume, sweat, and whatever fruity mixer is being spilled onto the carpet and ignored.

You’re perched on the arm of the sofa, clutching a cup you’ve had for twenty minutes without drinking. You’re not thirsty. Your anxiety has simply occupied every available body function and reassigned your hands to cup duty so they don’t start shaking.

Beomgyu is in his element. Beomgyu is thriving. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug with smug confidence. He has an audience. He has momentum. He is about to ruin you for entertainment.

“And then,” Beomgyu says, raising his voice so half the room can hear, “she tells Soobin her body count is eleven.”

You make a sound that is half groan, half prayer. “I didn’t tell him. It just came out.”

“It just came out,” Beomgyu repeats, delighted. “Right. A natural phenomenon. An act of God. You tripped and fell face-first into lying.”

Mina’s eyes go wide. “Eleven is wild. Babe.”

Yuna squints at you. “Eleven is also—not even sexy. You could’ve said four. Four says I have a life without saying I run an underground operation.”

“I panicked,” you hiss. “He was flirting. It escalated. And I—”

“And you decided to go full porn star,” Beomgyu finishes, grinning.

“Beomgyu!” you yelp, lunging for the nearest cushion. You throw it at his face.

He catches it without looking. Smug bastard.

Yuna points at you, horrified and amused. “What else did you lie about?”

“I lied about everything,” you whisper, because there’s no point pretending now. Your face is on fire. “I lied about my body count. I lied about being experienced. I lied about—skills.”

Beomgyu slaps his knee. “Skills.”

“Stop saying it like that,” you beg.

Beomgyu is practically vibrating. “No, because this is insane. Soobin is coming back next month expecting you to be this confident, filthy menace, and you’ve never even—”

“Don’t,” you warn, voice shaking. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Mina tries to be helpful and fails. “Okay, but what exactly did you promise him?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I promised him a whole night.”

Beomgyu snorts. “A whole night of what? Sudoku?”

Yuna makes a choking noise. Mina throws her head back, laughing.

You glare at Beomgyu. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, grinning. “You need me. I’m your emotional support bully.”

“You’re my emotional support executioner.”

Beomgyu raises his hands. “I’m just saying, you didn’t just flirt. You wrote him a brochure. You made claims.”

Mina wipes at her eyes. “What claims?”

Beomgyu smiles, evil. “She told him she’d get on her knees the second he asked.”

“Beomgyu!”

“She told him she likes it doggy.”

“Beomgyu!”

“She told him she could take raw.”

Yuna screams, “STOPPPPPP.”

You bury your face in your hands. Your entire body tries to fold into itself. “I was delusional,” you say into your palms. “I was horny and delusional and he was in Switzerland and it felt fake and safe.”

Mina’s laughter softens a notch. “Okay. Okay. So what’s your plan? Are you going to tell him the truth?”

You lift your head slowly, eyes stinging. “Absolutely not.”

Yuna blinks. “Then what happens when he tries to kiss you?”

Your stomach flips. “I’m going to die,” you whisper.

“You’re not going to die,” Beomgyu says cheerfully. “You’re just going to be exposed.”

“Can you stop saying that sentence,” Mina says, laughing and wincing at the same time.

Across the room, the music shifts. People keep dancing. People keep drinking. Your life is falling apart and nobody even pauses the playlist. 

You stand up because you can’t sit still. Your skin feels too tight. Your lungs won’t fill properly. “I need air,” you say, not asking permission.

Beomgyu waves you off. “Go practise being mysterious.”

Mina calls after you, still laughing, “Go practise telling the truth!”

You flip them off without turning around.

Cold air hits your face and your lungs finally expand. The night is damp, streetlights turning the pavement glossy. 

Your eyes sting. You tell yourself you are not crying at a party. You are not going to be that girl. You are going to be normal and composed and grown—your throat tightens anyway. You swipe at your cheek, annoyed at yourself, and step further out so the doorway light can’t expose your face.

And then you see him.

Choi Yeonjun.

Leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette between his fingers, shoulders loose, posture relaxed in a way that feels unfair. He’s with a few friends, but he stands half a step apart—present, included, not chasing attention. He laughs at something, and it’s easy. It sits on him naturally.

His hair falls into his face in messy pieces, dark and thick and grown out on purpose. It shadows his eyes when he looks down. When he lifts his gaze there’s sharp attention there—observant, not arrogant. The kind that makes you feel clocked even from across the pavement.

A silver hoop catches the light at his ear when he turns his head. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms bare, lean muscle moving when he brings the cigarette to his mouth. He exhales smoke into the cold and doesn’t look like he’s performing for anyone.

“Bro,” one of them laughs, loud enough that anyone with ears is now involved, “you cannot keep saying you’re taking a break when you’re still getting your dick sucked every other day.”

Yeonjun doesn’t even flinch. He takes a drag, exhales slowly, and says, deadpan, “I’m not keeping track.”

“You’re lying,” another one says immediately. “You absolutely keep track. You’re the kind of man who knows his Google Calendar password.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “I don’t schedule head.”

“Yeah, you just stumble into it,” the first friend snorts. “Accidentally. Tragic. You fell down the stairs and landed in someone’s throat.”

“Shut up,” Yeonjun says, but it’s lazy. Practised. Like he’s said it before and enjoyed it every time.

A third friend shoves his shoulder. “Nah, he’s actually evil. He’ll flirt for twenty minutes, act all chill, then go, Do you want to come upstairs? like it’s a cuppa tea.”

Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “It’s not evil. It’s called being direct.”

“It’s called being a slut,” the first friend corrects, delighted. “Campus public transport. Tap in, tap out.”

Yeonjun turns his head slowly, brows lifting. “I’m not public transport.”

“You’re Uber Surge Pricing,” someone says. “Everyone complains, everyone still pays.”

His friends erupt. Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking now, and it’s the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what they’re doing and he’s letting them anyway.

“Okay,” the second friend says, catching his breath. “Serious question. Aftercare?”

Yeonjun exhales, unimpressed. “I’m not a psychopath.”

“Oh my God,” the third friend groans, laughing. “He’s a whore with ethics.”

Yeonjun shrugs, too calm. “I’m a man with standards.”

“Your standards are, she wants you and she’s breathing.”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “She wants me. I want her. Nobody’s pressured. Everybody’s clean. Everybody’s fed. That’s the whole list.”

“The whole list,” the first friend repeats, wheezing. “He said fed. This man is handing out orgasms and snacks.”

Yeonjun taps his cigarette against the lamppost. “You’ll understand one day when someone actually enjoys having you around.”

“Yeonjun,” someone gasps, scandalised, “that was personal.”

He just smirks again—unbothered and comfortable in his skin—while your stomach tightens, because hearing him say it out loud makes everything in your head feel painfully real.

Your brain supplies everything you’ve heard about him without you asking.

Your chest aches with something humiliating. Not for him. For what he seems to have. For how he seems to exist without fear. For how he looks like he could teach confidence the way people teach a language.

The idea lands hard. You stare at Yeonjun—at the cigarette, the smirk, the calm—and you think, with awful certainty, I’m going to ask him for help.

You don’t do it at the party.

Because you are many things, but you are not walk up to the campus whore in front of witnesses and ask him to teach you how to suck dick insane.

So you try to be strategic. You try to be normal.

You fail.

The next day, you find Yeonjun alone in a lecture hall—back row, legs stretched out, phone in his hand. His hair is pushed back just enough to show his forehead, but it still falls forward in stubborn pieces. He looks expensive without trying.

You stop in the doorway too long. A girl brushing past you mutters, “Move,” and you jolt as if you’ve been caught committing a crime.

You march down the aisle anyway. Your brain is screaming ABORT. Your feet ignore it. Yeonjun doesn’t look up when you sit beside him. Of course he doesn’t. Of course the man who allegedly gets laid on weekdays doesn’t bother looking up at anything.

Your heart is punching your ribs. Your palms are damp. You swallow. Hard.

You stare at the front of the lecture hall like it owes you answers. Your throat keeps tightening every time you try to form a sentence.

Hi. Sorry. Weird question.

No.

Hi. I’ve been watching you smoke outside parties.

Absolutely not.

Hi. I lied to this guy named Soobin who’s on exchange in Switzerland and he’s about to come back and asked to go on a date and then do things but I have no idea how to do these things because of course I lied so now I need a man with a reputation to save me.

Jesus Christ.

Yeonjun scrolls on his phone, thumb moving slow, relaxed. He’s close enough that you can see the edge of his screen. Something brainless. Sports highlights. A meme. A girl’s name in his notifications.

You glance at him once. Sharp jaw. Lazy mouth. Heavy lashes. The faint scent of laundry, smoke, and something clean under it—soap, cologne, whatever. It makes your stomach do that humiliating drop it does when you remember you’re a sexual being and not just an anxious blob with student debt.

You look away fast. Too fast. Your neck twinges.

You sit there rigid for the entire hour, rehearsing one sentence over and over until it loses meaning—Can you teach me how to sex?

The lecturer says something about post-modernism. Somebody asks a question nobody cares about. Someone’s laptop fan starts screaming. Life carries on while you silently drown.

Yeonjun doesn’t look up once.

At the end, people stand. Bags zip. Chairs scrape. Yeonjun stands too, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He walks past you without a glance.

You sit there for a full minute after everyone leaves, staring at the whiteboard as if it’s going to spit out confidence. “Okay,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow arrives and Yeonjun is outside, cigarette between his lips, lighter flicking open and shut in his hand.

Your feet carry you there before your brain can file an objection. And then, at the last second, your body betrays you and you dive behind a bush.

A bush. You are hiding behind a bush on a university campus because you are terrified of a man with good cheekbones. You crouch there, peering through leaves, the damp smell of plant and dirt filling your nose.

Yeonjun inhales. Exhales. Smoke curls into the cold air.

You tell yourself, Go. Walk up. Speak. Use words. Ask him. Say “I need help, please.”

You don’t move. Yeonjun finishes the cigarette. Lights another.

You tell yourself, If you don’t go now, you’re going to end up on a date with Soobin pretending you know what you’re doing. He’s going to kiss you. He’s going to touch you. He’s going to expect your mouth to do the things you promised. You’re going to panic. You’re going to ruin everything.

You still don’t move. Your phone vibrates. You freeze, because the universe has a sense of humour and it hates you.

Yeonjun shifts slightly. His gaze flicks toward the bush.

Your soul leaves your body.

He stares for a beat then turns to his phone. Yeonjun finishes the second cigarette, tucks the lighter away, and walks off.

You remain behind the bush. You press your forehead to a leaf.

“Why am I like this?” you whisper.

The day after that, you decide you need a new strategy. A better one. A less humiliating one. Something with dignity.

So you go to the cafeteria with sunglasses on and a newspaper lifted to hide half your face. You look like a woman trying to commit fraud.

You spot Yeonjun across the room—sitting alone, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other, taking bites in between texts. He looks irritatingly relaxed. He looks annoyingly hot doing something as unsexy as eating cheese and mayonnaise.

You pretend to read the newspaper. You turn a page too aggressively and it makes a loud snap. The guy next to you flinches and stares. You stare straight ahead, as if you are not a lunatic wearing sunglasses indoors at lunchtime. You lower the newspaper by half an inch.

Yeonjun is still scrolling. Still chewing. Still minding his own business.

You tell yourself: Stand up. Walk over. Say “Hi.” Say “I need help.” Say “I lied.” Say “I need lessons.” Say “Before my date, I need someone to teach me how to not embarrass myself in bed.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your thoughts trip over each other. Just walk up. Just say it. Just—your sunglasses slip down your nose. You push them up too fast, flustered. The newspaper wobbles. You panic and lift it higher.

Someone behind you laughs. You don’t know if it’s at you, but your body assumes it is.

Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes flick over the newspaper, the sunglasses, the tension in your shoulders. He pauses mid-bite. Then, very slowly, he goes back to his phone. 

You exhale into the paper, miserable. “This is not going well,” you whisper.

And somehow—despite the humiliation flooding your face, despite the dread crawling up your spine—you already know the worst part. You’re not stopping.

By day five, Choi Yeonjun is done pretending this is normal.

He can handle the usual stuff. People staring. People whispering. People acting brave in front of their friends and then sending him titty pics at 2am with you up? and a location pin.

He can handle being a rumour. It’s easier than being a person. But even rumours don’t come with a five-day stalking schedule.

It starts small. Then it gets stupid.

Lecture hall—you sit next to him and sweat through your shirt.  Outside—you appear near his smoke break and then vanish behind a bush.  Cafeteria—you wear sunglasses indoors and hold a newspaper upside down to your eyebrows. 

Yeonjun is not flattered. Yeonjun is not charmed.

Yeonjun is thinking, is this a dare? Am I about to end up on somebody’s private story with a caption that says caught the campus slut? If I ignore it, you’ll keep doing it. If I confront it, it becomes a scene.

Then there’s the men’s toilets. That’s when it stops being funny.

He’s half-awake, caffeine-deprived, walking toward the door, and there you are—posted up near it, pretending you’re waiting for someone.

You are very obviously not waiting for someone. You are waiting for him.

He slows. You freeze. Your eyes meet for half a second and your face does this whole panic spiral in real time—guilt, fear, shame—then you look away so fast it’s a neck injury. Yeonjun walks past because he’s not starting a public fight outside a toilet.

But he washes his hands longer than necessary, staring at his reflection. He looks normal. He looks calm. He looks exactly like the guy everyone thinks he is.

He doesn’t feel calm.

He feels watched. He feels set up. He feels one wrong move away from being a screenshot.

So by day five, he makes a decision. If you want to be weird, you’re going to be weird to his face.

He’s outside for a cigarette when he spots you again.

There you are, half-hidden behind a lamppost, doing a terrible job at pretending you’re just standing there. You’re stiff, shoulders high, eyes wide, cheeks already flushing because you know you’ve been seen.

Kian follows Yeonjun’s gaze. “Oh my God,” he laughs. “It’s her. The spy.”

Milo squints. “Is she the newspaper one?”

“Yeah,” Kian says, delighted. “Newspaper and sunglasses indoors. Absolute criminal.”

Yeonjun flicks ash off his cigarette. “Shut up,” he says, stepping away from them.

He just walks. Straight toward you. Your eyes widen further as he closes the distance. You look trapped. 

He stops in front of the lamppost. He keeps his voice flat. Calm. No drama. “Are you following me?”

You blink. “What? No.”

Yeonjun nods once. “Okay.”

You exhale, relief flickering.

“And I’m the Pope,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan. “Lecture hall. Cafeteria. My smoke breaks. Outside the men’s toilets.”

Your face drains. “Oh my God,” you choke out. “No—no, I wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Finish that sentence.”

You swallow. Your fingers clamp around your bag strap.

Yeonjun doesn’t soften. Not yet. He scans your hands. Your phone. The angle of your body. The way you keep flicking your eyes around the pavement. He says it plainly. “Are you filming me?”

Your head jerks. “What? No!”

“Is this a dare?” Yeonjun asks. “Are your friends watching from a window? Are we doing a prank? Do you want me to say something embarrassing so you can post it?”

Your eyes go glassy. “No. I swear. I’m not trying to do anything to you.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches at that. “Bold sentence to say to a stranger you’ve been stalking.”

You flinch. “I wasn’t stalking. I was—”

“What,” Yeonjun cuts in, voice low, “were you doing?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Yeonjun waits. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t rescue you. He just stands there and lets the silence choke.

Your voice comes out messy. “I have a date.”

Yeonjun blinks once. “Congrats.”

You keep going anyway, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked. “He’s coming back next month. This guy. Choi Soobin? I don’t know if you know him but—but he asked me out and I—I’ve been texting him for months and I said things and now he’s actually going to be here and I’m going to embarrass myself so badly I’m going to have to drop out.”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Soobin—as in Soobin the guy that went to Switzerland on exchange?”

You nod so hard it’s frantic.

Yeonjun keeps his face blank. “And what does any of this have to do with me?”

You inhale sharply and then blurt the proposition in the worst possible words. “I need you to teach me how to suck dick.”

The pavement goes silent in Yeonjun’s head. Not because he’s shocked. He’s heard worse. He’s been offered worse. Because your delivery is so mortified and sincere that it doesn’t even sound seductive. It sounds desperate. It sounds panicked. It sounds… insane.

Yeonjun stares at you. Then he says, very clearly, “Excuse me?”

Your whole face turns red. “Not—not here. Oh my God. Not on the street. I just—I meant—I need help.”

“You think you can just walk up to me and say that?” Yeonjun asks, voice sharper now. “You think I’m a public service? A campus tutorial?”

“No!” you say too loudly. Then quieter, frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I just—I lied to him.”

Yeonjun crosses his arms. “About what.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “About—everything.”

“Give me specifics,” Yeonjun says. “Because everything can mean you lied about being rich or you lied about loving anal.”

You make a strangled noise. “I—I lied about being experienced.”

Yeonjun tilts his head. “Define experienced.”

You look like you want the earth to open up and swallow you. “I told him I’m good at oral,” you whisper, barely audible. “I told him I like it. I told him I’d swallow. I told him I could take him. I told him I—” you choke, then force it out anyway because you’re already dying, “—I told him I’m not shy—and I can take it raw and my body count is eleven—and yeah.”

Yeonjun’s jaw tightens. Not because he’s offended. Because now he understands the real problem. You wrote a sexual resume you can’t back up, and you’re about to get audited in person.

Yeonjun exhales slowly. “So your solution is… me.”

“Yes,” you say, voice cracking. “Because everyone says you—you know what you’re doing.”

Yeonjun lets out a single laugh. It isn’t warm. It’s disbelief. “Everyone says a lot of shit,” he replies.

“I’ll do anything, I’ll—I just need three lessons.”

Yeonjun’s gaze sharpens. “Three.”

You nod. “Three.”

“Tell me what you think a lesson is,” Yeonjun says. “Because right now it sounds like you want to practise on me so you can go impress another guy.”

You go rigid. “That’s not—I mean—yes, technically, but—”

Yeonjun’s brows shoot up. “Oh, you’re honest. Great.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, panicking again. “I mean I don’t want to freeze. I don’t want to look stupid. I don’t want to panic when he touches me. I don’t want to be that girl who wrote porn and then shows up in person and can’t even—”

You stop. Swallow.

Yeonjun watches you shake. Not in a cute way. In a she’s actually about to cry way. He looks over his shoulder once. His friends are watching, grinning, clearly expecting entertainment.

Yeonjun turns back. His voice drops. “This is suspicious as hell.”

Your shoulders slump. “I know.”

“It’s also risky,” Yeonjun continues. “For me. For you. For both of us. If someone finds out, it’s not you they’ll call a creep.”

You nod fast. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear on my life.”

Yeonjun’s eyes narrow. “Swear better.”

You swallow. “Swear on my mother.”

Yeonjun holds your gaze, checking. You don’t flinch. He asks, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you on something?”

“No.”

Yeonjun pauses. He should walk away. He should tell you to go be honest with that Soobin and accept the consequences of your own mouth. He should tell you to stop stalking strangers. He should—instead, he asks, “What exactly are the three lessons?”

You falter.

Yeonjun waits.

You force it out, mortified, barely meeting his eyes. “Kissing. Oral. Sex.”

Yeonjun’s throat tightens. He keeps his face steady. “So you want me to teach you how to fuck.”

You nod, face burning. “Yes.”

“And then you go on a date with another man,” Yeonjun says, dry. “And what, you thank me for my service and disappear?”

You look at him, panicked. “It’s not—I’m not trying to use you. I just—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yeonjun studies you. The way you’re trembling. The way you’re not flirting. The way you’re begging with your whole posture. You don’t look manipulative. You look scared.

Yeonjun could tell you the truth.

You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m a virgin. I’ve never kissed anyone in my life, let alone—

But you’re looking at him like he’s the answer. Like you have so much ridiculous faith in him, it makes his chest ache in a place he doesn’t want to examine. And Yeonjun has spent years learning that correcting people is exhausting. That admitting you don’t fit the story makes them laugh, or pity you, or lose interest entirely. 

So he does what he knows best. He lets the story win.

He exhales. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”

Your eyes flick up, hopeful.

Yeonjun doesn’t give in yet. “I don’t do lessons with someone who can’t even say hello without hiding behind a bush,” he says. “If you want this, you’re going to act like an adult.”

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

Yeonjun continues, firm, “No more stalking. If you want to talk to me, you walk up. You use your mouth for words first.”

Your face goes crimson. “Okay.”

Yeonjun watches you struggle to hold it together. He says, “If I say yes, it’s on my terms. No audience. No phones out. No screenshots. No bragging. No hinting. Nothing.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you whisper.

Yeonjun stares at you for a long beat. Then he says, “And if you catch feelings, we stop.”

Your eyes widen. “I won’t.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Everybody says that.” He takes one last look over his shoulder at his friends. They’re still watching. Still laughing. Still hungry for drama. Yeonjun turns back to you and makes the choice anyway, because there’s something in your panic he recognises too well.

“Fine,” he says, clipped. “Tomorrow. My place. Drop me a text and I’ll send you the address.”

Your whole face changes—relief so huge it’s embarrassing.

“Thank you,” you breathe.

Yeonjun holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”

You nod quickly, almost trembling.

Yeonjun’s voice drops, sharp with warning. “And if you ever follow me near the men’s toilets again,” Yeonjun adds, deadpan, “I’m calling campus security.”

You make a strangled sound. “I’m sorry.”

Yeonjun steps back, flicking his cigarette away. He walks toward his friends with his shoulders loose and his face bored, because that’s the only way he survives campus. Because if he stops and thinks too hard, he’ll have to admit the truth, he has no idea what he’s doing.

And now he’s agreed to teach someone else.

Yeonjun decides—at exactly 2:03pm—that he’s fucked.

Because three lessons sounded neat when you said it outside. Three is a number you can count. Three is a deadline. Three is a plan.

But now it’s lesson one. Now it’s his flat. Now you’re coming over.

His mate being away should feel convenient. Empty flat. No interruptions. No one walking in and clocking the fact Yeonjun is about to get exposed as a fraud.

Instead, the silence is loud as hell. The walls feel nosy. The sofa looks judgemental.

He checks his phone again.

psycho stalker: omw psycho stalker: pls don’t laugh at me psycho stalker: i swear to god if you laugh at me i’ll die

Yeonjun snorts, because of course that’s what you’d text. Full panic. Full honesty. Zero seduction. You’ve been stalking him for a week and still somehow texting him like he’s a dentist.

“Okay,” he says out loud, because there’s nobody else here and if he doesn’t talk he’ll combust. “Okay. Lesson one. Kissing. That’s it. Mouths. Easy.”

He pauses.

Then he adds, quieter, “Not easy.”

He showers once. Normal. He showers again because he imagines you stepping close and clocking sweat and going ew the campus fuckboy smells like sweat. He showers a third time because his brain thinks soap is protection. Soap will save him. Soap will erase the fact he has no idea what he’s doing.

When he steps out, the mirror’s steamed. His hair is damp, falling into his eyes. He drags a towel through it and it still looks the same.

He brushes his teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth time his gums sting. He spits and sees pink. He stares at the sink, personally offended.

“Great,” he mutters. “Perfect. Sexy. Don’t bleed in her mouth, Yeonjun.”

He rinses. Swallows. Leans both hands on the counter and breathes like he’s trying to calm down before a fight. 

He walks into his bedroom and immediately starts cleaning as if cleanliness is going to replace experience. Sheets off. Sheets on. Then off again because the first set feels wrong and he hates that his body is having opinions. He smooths the duvet. Fluffs the pillows. Picks up a sock. Picks up another sock. Finds a receipt he doesn’t remember. Wipes his desk. Wipes his bedside table.

He’s not cleaning.

He’s stalling. His phone is open on the bed again because he’s weak.

Reddit. A thread titled, first kiss tips.

He reads out loud in a mocking voice, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping him upright. “Don’t overthink it.” He snorts. “Yeah, brilliant. Thanks.”

“Use your hands.” He stares at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. “Which hands. How. Where. Be specific.”

“Don’t shove your tongue down her throat.” He winces. “Okay. Great. So I’ll just—keep my tongue in my pocket.”

He scrolls.

“Ask if she likes it.” He reads that one twice. Then a third time.

Ask.

He can ask. He’s not an idiot. He’s not going to do anything you don’t want. He’s also terrified you’ll say no and then look at him differently.

He backs out of the thread and types, how to french kiss without being shit He stares at the search bar. Hates himself. Hits enter anyway. A list pops up—angles, lips, tongue, breathing, pace. He throws his phone onto the bed again.

“Okay,” he says, pacing. “Okay. I can do this. People kiss all the time. Teenagers do it behind bins. It’s not rocket science.”

His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. Then it buzzes again. Then it buzzes again.

He grabs it, annoyed, expecting the groupchat.

It’s you.

psycho stalker: i’m actually gonna throw up psycho stalker: don’t say lol or i’ll never recover

Yeonjun exhales through his nose. His chest does something irritating. Soft.

He types back.

yeonjun: i’m not saying lol yeonjun: you’re fine. you’re safe. and if you want to bail, you bail. no one’s forcing you yeonjun: you still coming?

Three dots appear. Disappear. 

psycho stalker: yes psycho stalker: i hate myself psycho stalker: but yes

Yeonjun stares at that for a second. He should tell you to stop sexting Soobin and just be honest. He should tell you to stop dragging strangers into your panic. He should tell you to stop.

Instead, he changes his outfit.

Plain tee. Too normal. Button-up. Too I’m trying. Hoodie. Too boyish.

He strips again and stands there half-dressed, staring at the mirror like he’s waiting for the confident version of himself to show up and take over.

He puts on a tank. White ribbed. The one that makes people look at him and assume things. He fixes his earrings. Runs a hand through his hair. Checks his jawline like that matters when he’s about to be kissing someone for real.

His phone buzzes.

psycho stalker: i’m outside

Yeonjun’s stomach drops so fast it feels physical. He moves too quickly—nearly trips over a hoodie, mutters fuck, and catches himself on the wall. He looks around the flat one more time. The cleaned surfaces. The made bed. The whole place pretending this is normal.

He checks the mirror. Hair messy enough to pass as effortless. Face calm enough to sell it. Eyes half-lidded enough to look confident instead of terrified. He practises his playboy expression for half a second.

It looks convincing. That’s the problem. He’s good at looking convincing.

The doorbell rings.

He walks to the door with measured steps, because if he runs he’ll feel insane. He opens it.

And there you are.

Shoulders high. Hands clenched around your bag strap. Mouth parted like you’ve rehearsed bravery all day and it still didn’t stick. Your eyes flick over him once and then immediately drop, embarrassed.

Yeonjun smiles first, because that’s what the rumour does. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth.

You swallow. “Hi.”

Yeonjun steps aside. “Come in.”

You hesitate for half a second, then cross the threshold.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You step over the threshold and immediately realise you might be the dumbest person alive.

Not in a cute way. In a I have willingly walked into a man’s flat to learn how to kiss and give blowjobs so I don’t get exposed to a boy named Soobin way.

The place smells clean—laundry, soap, and whatever Yeonjun put on his skin that’s expensive enough to make your brain lag. It hits you as he moves past you, shoulder brushing the air. Your throat tightens.

You force your shoes off with fingers that don’t work properly.

“Just—uh.” Yeonjun glances down at your feet, then back up, as if he’s pretending this is casual. “You can… put them there.”

Your voice comes out too fast. “I’m not tracking mud in, don’t worry. I’m not here to disrespect your—” You stop yourself. Blink. “Why am I talking about mud? Oh my God.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. He looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Breathe,” he says. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not shaking.” You look down at your hands. They’re shaking. You curl them into fists. “I’m vibrating. Different thing.”

Yeonjun huffs a laugh under his breath, then clears his throat as if that was an accident. He shifts his weight and leans his back against the door like he’s done this a hundred times.

He’s in a white ribbed tank that makes him look unfairly real. Not a rumour. Not a story. Not the guy people point at outside parties and say I heard he fucked—but a man in a small flat, broad shoulders, collarbones you have to actively not stare at.

Low-slung jeans sit on his hips. His underwear waistband flashes when he moves. Hoop in one ear. His hair falls into his face in soft, messy curtains—the kind that looks accidental but somehow frames him perfectly. Dark. Thick. A little too long, like he’s grown it out on purpose just to give people something to stare at. It shadows his eyes when he tilts his head down. His mouth—you cut the thought off before it becomes a problem.

Your brain tries to reboot itself into Normal Mode.

It fails.

Your what-ifs line up instantly.

What if you freeze? What if you do something wrong? What if your teeth clack into his? What if he kisses you and you panic-laugh? What if he thinks you’re basically a nervous Victorian child?

And then the one you keep trying to swallow—is this cheating?

You and Soobin aren’t together. You’re not official. You’re not anything except a history and a chat thread full of crimes. But he’s called other girls casual in the same sentence he called you special, and you hated how easy he sounded when he said it.

Still.

You’re here. In someone else’s flat. With the door shut.

Yeonjun watches your face like he can read the panic word-for-word. His voice goes softer without him meaning to. “You can back out,” he says, plain. “Right now. No weirdness.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I’m not backing out.”

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow. “Confident.”

“I’m terrified,” you correct immediately. “I’m just—terrified with commitment.”

He snorts, then catches himself, like he didn’t mean to be human. “Okay. Um. Come in,” he says again.

You nod too hard, cheeks burning, and follow him.

The hallway is narrow. Your footsteps sound loud. Your whole body is aware of him in front of you—tank clinging to his back, shoulders moving under the fabric, the casual way he walks as if he’s not leading a girl to his bedroom to—your brain tries to say it out loud.

To learn how to kiss and suck dick and fuck.

It lands in your head so bluntly you almost trip.

Yeonjun glances back. “You good?”

“Yes.” You nod. “No. I mean—yes. I’m good.”

He stops outside a door and turns slightly. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, and his tone shifts into something more serious. “I’m not here to pressure you.”

Your throat tightens, inconveniently. You nod once.

He opens the door.

And the bedroom is—normal. Painfully normal.

No half-naked posters. No porn shoved under the bed. No gross bikini shrine. No weird anime tits staring into your soul.

Just a made bed. A desk with a laptop and a mess of chargers. A hoodie on a chair. Books stacked neatly. A speaker. Warm light from a lamp. The scent of fabric softener and whatever body wash he uses.

Your chest loosens without permission.

You glance at Yeonjun, then back at the room, then back at Yeonjun as if you’re checking for a hidden camera.

He catches your expression and immediately goes defensive, which is weirdly adorable. “What?” he says. “You disappointed?”

You laugh once, sharp. “No. I just thought your room was going to look like PornHub HQ.”

Yeonjun’s eyes widen a fraction, then he laughs—real, quick, then he bites it back, as if he’s worried laughing makes him look less… whatever he’s supposed to be. “Jesus,” he mutters. “That’s what you think of me?”

“That’s what the campus thinks of you,” you correct, because you can’t help yourself. “Apparently you’ve got a queue system. A waiting list. A loyalty card.”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, but his ears go a little pink. “Shut up.”

“I’m being serious,” you say, then immediately regret saying serious in a bedroom with a man you’re paying in embarrassment. “I mean—okay, I’m not being serious. But you know what I mean.”

Yeonjun scratches the back of his neck, the movement flexing his arm. You notice. You hate yourself for noticing.

“So,” he says, forcing his voice into something cool. “Do you—wanna get started?”

Your mouth opens. Your voice comes out pathetic. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun takes a step closer.

Then another.

Your pulse starts hammering in your throat. Your palms sweat. You can feel every inch of your own skin. You make yourself stand still and not flinch because you are twenty-one years old and you did not walk into this man’s flat just to fold at the first two steps.

Yeonjun stops close enough that you can smell him properly—mint and soap and that expensive cologne sitting on his throat.

He leans in.

You lean in too because if you don’t, you’ll die.

His breath brushes your mouth.

You’re right there. You’re about to kiss him.

And then you jerk back so fast it’s almost violent. “Wait,” you blurt. “This feels—weird.”

Yeonjun freezes. Then he exhales a laugh that sounds like the relief he tried to hide. “Thank fuck,” he says, automatically. Then he coughs, like he’s remembering he’s meant to be suave. “Yeah. Bit weird.”

You stare at him. “Did you just say thank—”

“No,” he lies instantly. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Yeonjun’s lips twitch. “Okay, yeah. I did. Because you scared the shit out of me.”

“Me?” you splutter. “You’re the one who—you’re the Choi Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun lifts a brow. “Oh, so now we’re doing the myth.”

“I—” you stop. Your face heats. “I’m doing the reality. You’re standing in front of me. In a tank top. In a bedroom. You look—” You cut yourself off before you say hot out loud because you will actually evaporate.

Yeonjun watches you struggle, and his voice drops into something more normal. “We don’t have to rush it,” he says. “We can talk first.”

The idea makes you pause. Because talking is where feelings start. Talking is where people become people instead of bodies and rumours. But also—talking is where you can breathe.

“Should we,” you say, then hesitate because your own rules echo in your skull—no feelings, no strings, no emotions—“should we get to know each other first?”

The second it’s out, panic spikes. You’ve basically just asked for intimacy in the most dangerous format—conversation.

Yeonjun blinks at you, then nods like you asked whether the sky is blue. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll order pizza. Because if I’m about to—” he gestures vaguely between you and his bed, “—teach you how to do—all that, you can at least tell me if you hate olives.”

You stare. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” he says. Then he looks at your face and adds, deadpan: “Also I need carbs before I ruin my reputation.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re not going to—”

“I’m joking.” He holds up his hands. “Mostly. Sit.”

You hover, then sit on the edge of his bed with your spine too straight. He sits opposite you, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, scrolling delivery apps as if this isn’t insane.

“What do you like?” he asks, glancing up.

“Pizza,” you answer immediately, because your brain is still stuck on one thought—I almost kissed him and didn’t die.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Okay. Toppings. And also—you know. Anything.”

You blink. “Anything in life?”

He shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “Yeah. Unless you only exist for sexting and fear.”

You laugh—real, startled—because it lands. Because he said it out loud. Because you feel seen and you hate that you like it.

And the weirdness eases, just a fraction enough to breathe.

And that’s how it starts.

“Pepperoni,” you say. “And—I don’t know. Jalapeños?”

He hums. “Spicy. Brave.”

“I’m not brave.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “You were brave when you stalked me outside the men’s toilets.”

You groan, immediate. “Stop saying it like that.”

“How should I say it?” He taps the screen. “Dedicated. Persistent. Sexually motivated.”

“I wasn’t sexually motivated,” you protest.

Yeonjun glances up slowly, deliberately looking you over in a way that makes your stomach drop. “Sure.”

“Don’t—” You point at him, flustered. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That—thing.”

Yeonjun leans back on one hand, tank pulling tight over his chest. “The thing where I exist?”

You hate him. You also feel your face warming.

Yeonjun hits confirm on the order and tosses his phone onto the duvet. Then he looks at you properly—head tilted, eyes sharp, posture loose. He’s giving calm. He’s giving control. He’s giving I’ve done this before. “You good?” he asks, casual.

You swallow. “Define good.”

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, still casual. “Do you want to stop? Do you want me to stop talking?”

You blink. “No.”

Yeonjun nods. “Okay. Then breathe.”

You glare. “I am breathing.”

“You’re breathing like you’re about to sit an exam,” he replies. “Relax. I’m not going to jump you.”

You snort. “That’s literally why I’m here.”

Yeonjun smiles, fast and cocky. “Yeah. I know.”

It shouldn’t do anything to you. It does. Your body reacts before your pride can catch up.

Yeonjun watches your reaction and looks pleased with himself. Then—because he’s infuriating—he softens it before it tips into too much. “Ground rules,” he says, tapping the mattress once between you. “You say stop, I stop. You say slow, I slow. You say no, it’s no. You don’t owe me finishing a lesson because you asked for help. Understand?”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s gaze holds yours, serious now. “Good.”

The door buzzer goes. Pizza. Yeonjun stands and walks out like he didn’t just say something that made you feel safer in a way you weren’t expecting. He comes back with the box and two cans, drops them on the bed between you.

“Romantic,” you say, because sarcasm is your emergency exit.

“This is not a date,” Yeonjun replies, popping a can. “This is a professional consultation.”

“You’re literally charging me in pepperoni.”

“I’m expensive.”

You take a slice so your hands have something to do besides shake. Yeonjun takes one too, biting into it with the confidence of a man who has never once feared crumbs on a white tank.

For a minute it’s just chewing and the quiet hum of the flat.

Then Yeonjun glances at you. “So. Soobin.”

Your stomach flips. “What about him?”

“What exactly did you tell him?” Yeonjun asks, too calm.

You choke. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because you showed up at my door,” he replies, deadpan, “so I’m allowed to collect context. Also I’m nosy.”

You swallow. Your eyes flick away. “I said—stuff.”

“Stuff,” Yeonjun repeats. “You’re making me drag it out of you.”

“Good,” you mutter. “Suffer.”

Yeonjun smirks. “Alright. Let’s play.”

He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees. It’s all posture. He looks relaxed on purpose. “True or false,” he says. “You told him you like giving blowjobs.”

Your soul tries to leave your body. “Oh my God,” you whisper.

Yeonjun’s eyes brighten. “That’s a yes.”

“I hate you,” you say, but you’re laughing because if you don’t laugh you’ll start crying.

“True or false,” he continues, enjoying himself, “you told him you like it raw.”

Your face burns.

Yeonjun nods slowly. “Right. That’s why you’re here.”

You cover your face with your hands. “Can we not do this?”

“We can,” he says easily. “But you also can’t keep turning into a corpse every time someone says the words out loud.”

You drop your hands. “You’re saying the words out loud!”

“Welcome to being an adult,” Yeonjun replies. “Sex involves words.”

You stare at him.

Yeonjun stares back, completely unbothered.

“You’re insane,” you mutter.

He grins. “You already knew that.”

Another beat. The air shifts again—still playful, but with tension under it.

Yeonjun looks away first, reaches for his speaker. “Music.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sitting in silence with you while you spiral.” He scrolls, then glances at you. “What do you listen to.”

You hesitate. “Uhm—Joji?”

Yeonjun pauses, looks up. “No shit.”

“Some Chase Atlantic,” you add, bracing for judgement.

Instead, Yeonjun lets out a short laugh. “Okay. So you’re into sad horny music.”

You choke. “That’s not what it is.”

“It is,” he says, hitting play. “It’s fine. I respect it.”

The song starts. You recognise it immediately. Your eyes widen a fraction.

Yeonjun notices. “You know it.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I—yeah.”

He nods, satisfied, and steals a jalapeño off your slice without asking.

“Excuse you,” you say.

Yeonjun chews, unbothered. “You’re the one who picked spicy.”

“That was for me!”

“You can fight me for it.”

You squint at him. “I will.”

Yeonjun’s smile goes sharp. “Please do.”

It’s dumb. It’s flirty. It’s too easy. It pulls you out of your head before you can stop it.

You end up talking while the music runs—classes, lecturers, people you can’t stand. He complains about a seminar that makes him want to headbutt a wall. You complain about your group project and he immediately says, “Drop the names. I’ll bully them.”

“You can’t bully my group mates.”

“I can,” he says. “I’m a public service.”

“You’re not a public service,” you shoot back. “You’re more like, I don’t know, campus rumour.”

Yeonjun arches a brow. “And you’ve been stalking a rumour. That’s crazy behaviour.”

“I wasn’t stalking.”

“You were behind a bush.”

“Stop.”

“You were holding a newspaper indoors.”

“Stop.”

“You were—”

“Yeonjun.”

He shuts up, still grinning. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being a dick.”

“Yes.”

He points at you. “You’re smiling.”

You wipe your face, offended at your own body. “No, I’m not.”

Yeonjun doesn’t argue. He just looks at you—steady, amused—and the look makes the room feel smaller.

Your phone buzzes. A notification lights your screen. Yeonjun’s eyes flick down automatically.

You grab your phone too fast. “It’s nothing.”

Yeonjun’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice loses the tease. “Is it him?”

You freeze. “No.”

Yeonjun watches you for a second, then nods once. “Okay.”

That’s it. No interrogation. No claim. No taking the mick. Just okay. It unsettles you more than any teasing. To save yourself, you blurt, “Do you watch anime?”

Yeonjun looks up, instant interest. “Depends. Are you about to judge me?”

“Yes,” you say.

He snorts. “Then no.”

“Liar,” you say. “Answer.”

Yeonjun takes another bite of pizza, chews, then says, “One Piece.”

You stare at him.

Yeonjun stares back, waiting.

“No,” you say finally. “No way.”

Yeonjun’s smile grows. “Yes way.”

“I love One Piece,” you say, suddenly too loud.

Yeonjun points at you like he’s caught you committing a crime. “See. You’re not normal either.”

“What arc are you on?” you demand.

Yeonjun leans back, smug. “Caught up.”

Your jaw drops. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“Favourite Straw Hat.”

“Luffy.”

“Basic,” you say immediately.

Yeonjun gasps. “That’s insane. Who’s yours?”

“Zoro.”

Yeonjun pauses, then nods once with genuine respect. “Okay. Great taste.”

You blink. “You’re a nerd.”

Yeonjun scoffs. “I’m not a nerd.”

“You are.”

Yeonjun leans in a little, grin returning. “Careful. I’ll start charging you extra for insulting me.”

“You’re already charging me in pepperoni.”

“I’m worth it,” he says, and you hate that your body reacts to his voice.

He watches that reaction again, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second, then back up. He looks exactly like the guy everyone talks about—the one who’s probably kissed a hundred girls, made them beg for more. Your stomach tightens anyway, a weird flutter you don’t quite understand.

Yeonjun pauses the song mid-track. The quiet lands heavy. He sets his slice down, wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then he looks at you, his gaze making your skin heat up. “Do you still want to do lesson one?”

Your mouth goes dry, but something pulses low in your belly, unfamiliar and insistent. “Yes.”

Yeonjun nods with calm confidence. “Okay.” He shifts closer, not rushing, but not hesitating either—giving you time to back out, maybe. 

His knee bumps yours, and he doesn’t move it away. The contact feels too warm, too much. “Last chance to bail,” he says, voice low, like he knows exactly how to make it sound sexy.

“I’m not bailing.”

Yeonjun’s smile returns, brief and a little knowing. “Good.” Then he leans in.

It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s confident enough that it makes your heart sprint and your body tingle in places you weren’t expecting. He must know what he’s doing—everyone says he does.

His mouth stops a breath away from yours, his warm exhale tickling your lips—making them feel strange, sensitive.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through you.

You swallow hard, your chest feeling tight. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I will.”

Yeonjun hums, the sound vibrating oddly in your core. “Good girl—” He catches himself, eyes flicking up to yours, testing if he’s gauging if that’s too far. 

But it hits you weirdly, making your thighs clench without meaning to. Your breath stutters, heat rushing to your face—and elsewhere. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s mouth curves slightly, satisfied. “Alright.”

Then he kisses you.

Your brain blanks out in a haze of confusion and heat, your body reacting in ways you don’t get—warmth pooling between your legs, making you shift uncomfortably. 

His lips press against yours, soft but firm, and you freeze for a second. His hand settles at your waist, fingers gripping awkwardly at first, adjusting his hold. 

You grab his tank top on instinct, bunching the fabric because everything feels too floaty, too unreal.

Yeonjun kisses you again, deeper, his tongue poking out hesitantly, brushing your lips before retreating. You part your mouth, bumping teeth lightly, and he makes a soft noise—maybe surprise?—but pushes forward anyway, his tongue slipping in too fast, too wet. 

It’s messy, saliva dribbling a bit at the corner of your mouth, and you swipe at it embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

You make a sound—a quiet gasp—and your hips twitch without warning, seeking something. 

Yeonjun pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Still okay?” he asks, voice a little rough.

You nod, breathless, your body buzzing. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun’s eyes hold yours for a beat—dark, intense—then he kisses you again, and it’s sloppier this time. 

Your noses bump as you tilt your head wrong, but he adjusts smoothly—his hand sliding up your side, fumbling over your ribcage before brushing your breast by accident. You jolt, a spark shooting straight down. His fingers pause, then squeeze tentatively—too light at first, then too hard, pinching without meaning to. You whimper into his mouth, not sure if it’s good or weird, but your nipple hardens anyway, aching.

Your own hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on his tank before dropping lower, grazing his thigh. You feel the hardness there, pressing against his jeans, and you falter. 

He shifts closer, his knee wedging between your legs, and when he rocks forward, his bulge grinding against your hip. 

You try to meet him, but your core rubs against his thigh too high. It’s frustrating, your body chasing something it doesn’t know how to catch, panties sticking damply as you both fumble, breaths hitching.

He groans softly against your neck, nipping at your skin—too sharp, then too soft—like he’s teasing you on purpose. 

His hand drops lower, cupping between your legs over your clothes, fingers rubbing haphazardly in the wrong spot. You buck into it anyway, a needy whine escaping, even as it doesn’t quite hit right.

When you break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you need oxygen, your head spinning, body throbbing with unmet need. You stare at each other, both breathing too hard. His lips are red, messy with spit. Your mouth feels swollen, raw. 

You feel wrecked in the most confusing, aching way, your pussy clenching around nothing.

Yeonjun’s gaze drags over your face as if he’s checking you out, composed despite the flush on his cheeks.

You force out, “That was—“

Yeonjun swallows, voice roughened. “Lesson one.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re such a loser.”

Yeonjun’s grin flashes. “You came to my house for sex lessons and I’m the loser?”

“Yes,” you say, still breathless. “You’re unbearable.”

Yeonjun leans back onto his hands, relaxed again. “Good. Because we’ve got two more lessons.”

Your stomach flips at the bluntness of it, that unfamiliar heat flaring again. Yeonjun watches you swallow, watches your throat move, and his eyes drop for half a second before he forces them back up—smooth, unreadable. “Drink,” he says, nodding at the can. “Before you pass out on my bed and I have to explain to campus security why you died during a consultation.”

You snort, grateful for the stupidity. You take a sip with shaking hands anyway.

And you hate that you feel safer now, sitting on his bed, with pizza grease on your fingers and his mouth still tingling on yours.

✧ prev | next | series masterlist | main masterlist

a/n: hiii my loves!! thanks so much for reading. i was meant to post this earlier but my laptop has been lagging all day and its been a pain to even type two words at a time. i've had sm fun writing this fic, i've been wanting to do a yeonjun fic forever now and lately i've been deep into the no labels content so you know where this is coming from lmao. this is my first time writing something this horny so any feedback is much much appreciated. the next chapter will be only escalate in terms of smut lmao as you can tell!! to any new readers, hello and welcome <3 so my existing readers, yes i promise unfortunately yours and ellipsis is coming, i did not forget bout my babies because i was too busy staring at yeonjun's abs

target: since i have the next chapter written out, i thought it'd be fun for us to do a notes target! as soon as we hit 250 notes, i will immediately post the next part, no questions asked! if we don't, i'll still post it next weekend hahaha. but if you want it sooner, spam me in the comments, with reposts and asks! love you <333

taglist: please drop me an ask or comment on the series masterlist