cbg + myg + jyh @youknowsoobin - Tumblr Blog

Apr 7

title: backstage reunion pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader genre: smut (mdni!!), exes, cheating, idolverse word count: 5.9k

summary: your boyfriend takes you to a txt concert & meet and greet. it's a shame he doesn't know about your connection to one of the members.

author's note: if i had a nickel for every time i've written reader cheating on their bf with choi yeonjun i would have two nickels, which isn't that many but it's weird that it's happened twice. ao3 link here!

tags/warnings: cheating, ex-bf yeonjun, dom yeonjun, brat reader, sub reader, minor degradation (slut), frustrated sex, hate sex but not really, quick sex, fingering, vaginal sex, clothes-on sex, porn with a little bit of plot, unprotected sex

.⋆ 𖥔 ݁ ˖₊‧. masterlist .‧₊˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ .

You should be thankful. Instead, as you look at your boyfriend's phone, you only feel a very specific kind of dread. An, oh fuck, my secret keeping is coming back to bite me in the ass, kind of dread.

“They’re still your favorite group, right?” Jiung asks, that nervous smile on his lips—thinking your under reaction equates to disappointment.

He would never jump to the right conclusion, because you’ve given zero indication in the last several months that you’re an untrustworthy girlfriend. In fact, you’ve been a perfect girlfriend.

Except for this one lie.

Perhaps not even a real lie, but a withholding of information. A secret you’ve always kept from boyfriends and even some friends.

Keeping it a secret makes it special. A memory that’s only yours. Yours and his—one that can’t be tarnished by anything. Not new boyfriends or judgmental friends.

You keep those memories in a jar, not because you want to relive them, but because sometimes you like to look back, to take a peek inside, to remember what things were like before they ceased to exist.

And of course, you never expected it to come up like this. You never expected to be standing in line for a meet and greet, post-concert, clasping your hands together in front of your chest, trying not to think about what it will feel like to look at him again, to make eye contact with him.

He’ll remember you. There’s no doubt in your mind. What you had was real and special, and honestly, not all that long ago. There hadn’t been any huge fallout, any fights, or negativity. You’d just grown apart. And at some point, the distance got so large that it felt impossible to cross. And that was before his rapid ascent into popularity.

“Maybe we should just go,” you say when there are only a few people ahead of you in line. It’s easier to bail, to pretend none of this happened at all.

It’s Jiung who encourages you forward. “We’re almost there. It’s okay. I don’t mind the wait.”

You wish the stress developing like a tight ball at the base of your stomach had anything to do with the amount of time you’ve been waiting. No, it’s the idea of him. Of Yeonjun looking you in the eyes.

So, you want to turn and run. But you don’t. Not when Jiung has a hand on your lower back, and you can see Yeonjun just ahead, chatting with other fans.

You are a fan. You’ve been following their comebacks, listening to their music at home. Concerts were always a step too far out of your comfort zone, over the line you drew in the sand to protect your heart.

But now you’re there. So far past the line you can hardly even see it anymore. Then, you’re standing in front of him, watching his big brown eyes roam over your body, taking note of the man standing next to you, touching you.

And you have to wonder what he’s thinking—because you certainly can’t ask.

There’s nothing immediately evident in the way that he looks at you. He recognizes you. You know he does. And when Jiung turns away for a brief moment, there’s a ghost of a smile on Yeonjun’s lips like he wants to be caught.

Because he can’t stop looking at you. At the way the corners of your lips turn up in a smile, at the inch of skin he can see over the table, but below your skirt, at the way your shirt cuts downward. He looks at you, and he thinks things he should not be thinking in public, in front of all those fans—but neither can he stop thinking them.

“Really nice to meet you,” Yeonjun says, pressed smile across his lips. Fake. “This your boyfriend?”

You clear your throat, trying to free all the emotion jammed to a stop in the center. Because he did not just ask you that. It could be played off. You’ve seen the videos of him with fans. You’ve seen his jealous nature in those conversations. But so, too, do you know what he looks like when he’s really jealous. That glint of subtle anger behind his eyes.

And you want to say something, because who does he think he is, being jealous of you, in this moment? You hold your tongue.

Jiung smiles. None the wiser.

“Yes,” you say.

Yeonjun makes a face, lips twisted up in a half scowl that he tries to play off as unserious.

“You want a picture?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and neither do you. You can’t imagine filling the silence with questions about his career, about the group—you don’t care about any of that shit. Not really.

And you didn’t account for any of this, really. And maybe if you had, you would have cancelled on Jiung, feigned sick or something, because holy shit, he looks so handsome. Blonde hair pushed back with gel, a tight red tank top, shoulders exposed.

Had he been this attractive when you were together?

Jiung elbows you gently in the side when you don’t immediately respond to the question. “Oh,” you say. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun reaches over and takes your phone out of his grasp. He rolls his eyes at your lock screen photo. Jiung with his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

He turns in his chair to take the photo with the two of you, then places your phone flat on the table, face down.

He makes small talk. Asks you a little bit about yourself. Things he already knows. He’s teasing you, you know it. Making you say all this stuff. He presses a little too hard, hoping Jiung will ask you about it on the ride home. Comment on how strange it was in the moment. He wants it to stick with you, make you uncomfortable now, and make you talk about it later.

Of course, you don’t know the fine details—just that he’s getting under your skin. Just that you’ll be thinking about him later, too. That annoys you more than anything else.

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning forward. His elbow obscures your phone from view.

“Nice to meet you again,” Yeonjun says as you step away from the table. “Thanks for coming.”

He waits until you’re gone to slip your phone into his lap, then into his pocket.

“So,” Jiung says, as he starts the car and readies to pull out of the parking lot. “Was that everything you hoped it would be?”

The rest of your conversations with the other members went smoothly. More fan service than strange, ex-boyfriend mind games.

“Mhm,” you say, looking out the passenger side window. You reach into your purse, looking for your phone. You check the pockets of your jacket. “Hold on,” you say, checking under your butt and anywhere else that a phone could possibly be located. “You don’t have my phone, do you?” you ask.

Jiung shakes his head. “Maybe you left it inside. Do you want me to go get it?”

“No,” you say, maybe too quickly. “It’s fine.” You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”

The walk back into the concert hall is a little more stressful than the first, and it has no reason to be. You’ve already seen him. Besides, some staff member probably has your phone. You just need to find them.

There are still lines curving throughout the place, fans waiting to be acknowledged, even momentarily, by their biases.

You approach a staff member in all black, scanning tickets near the front.

“Hey, I think I left my phone on the table,” you say.

She looks at you with a raised brow, like it’s the worst excuse she’s ever heard. But she tells you to wait while she calls over another employee, who then approaches the table. You watch them lean down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. His eyes drift past the fan he’s talking to to find yours, and a chill runs through your system.

God, how the fuck did either of you let things end so abruptly? You were there, and then you weren’t. And all of a sudden—being together again felt like an impossibility. So you never called. And neither did he.

The staff member finds you again and gestures for you to step to the side. She doesn’t say much, but leads you further away from the crowd, then down a hallway. “Just wait here for one moment,” she says, extending an arm toward a couch in a small dressing room.

You take a seat, then turn to say something, but she’s already gone.

There’s no clock, just a rack of clothes and a large mirror lined with lights. It occurs to you in some far-off part of your brain that this must be Yeonjun’s dressing room. There’s an unzipped makeup bag on the table in front of the mirror, and a backpack—much more casual than the rest—slouched against the table.

The door opens while you’re studying the place, and then he’s there. Standing with his arms crossed in front of the door, looking down at you.

You stand up, crossing the minimal space until you’re in front of him.

It’s so much different, this moment, than the one not fifteen minutes ago. There’s no long table separating you, no fans watching your every move. No Jiung. With all that stripped away, his eye contact makes your skin hotter, makes the blood boil beneath it.

There’s nothing to be angry about. Not really. You still find the way to some brand of spite.

Yeonjun pulls your phone out of his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers. “Looking for this?” he asks.

“You know that I am,” you say.

He tilts his head to the side, studying you. “Bummer,” he says. “I thought you came back to see me.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask, keeping your voice even. Free of any kind of feeling, even as your heart skips and stutters under his eye contact.

You reach for your phone, and he pulls it back, just out of reach. “Maybe because you missed me,” he suggests.

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asks.

“Jiung—my boyfriend. He got me the tickets,” you say. “He knows I’m a fan, so.”

Yeonjun raises a brow. God, there’s so much fucking history between the two of you. You can feel it pressing in from every angle, oppressive and loud, vibrating your eardrums and making it difficult to focus. You can’t look at him and just see an idol. You look at him and see someone who was yours for so long, before they weren’t.

Yeonjun nods. There’s no change to the way he looks at you, or the way he holds himself. He nods like it's the most uninteresting conversation in the world.

“If you want to say something, just say it,” you tell him.

He shrugs, lips turning downward at the corners as he does so.

“Can I have my phone back?” you ask.

“Not yet,” he says. Then, “Must not be a very good boyfriend, if he doesn’t know about me.” He takes half a step closer to you.

You will yourself to take a step back, to even the distance back out, but your body doesn’t listen to your brain.

“He’s a good boyfriend,” you say.

“Then you must not be a very good girlfriend,” Yeonjun says, with a light shrug. It’s not serious to him. None of this is.

Your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches at the bridge. “I’m—I’m a good girlfriend.”

He holds your phone up, and you don’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already done. With your phone unlocked, he pulls up the phone app. “I could call him, tell him our little secret.”

You reach for the phone, wrapping your hand around his in an attempt to tug it away. You freeze there, hand on top of his, chests a few inches apart.

“Why haven’t you told him about me?” Yeonjun asks, leaning down, meeting your eyes. His voice is low, and the hushed tone makes goosebumps rise on your forearms. And you don’t even know the answer to his question. You don’t know why you never told Jiung about Yeonjun. Why you never told any of the guys you dated before Jiung about him, either. Maybe you just like having the secret.

He presses your phone into your hand, closing your fingers around it.

“I don’t know,” you say, and the words come out nearly silent.

A smile crosses his lips for the first time since that small dressing room. He reaches out and places a hand on your bare upper arm.

“Does he make you happy?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Happier than I made you?” he asks.

You don’t answer immediately, and his smile grows.

“What are you doing right now?” you ask him, because you can’t seem to wrap your mind around whatever game it is he’s playing.

“I didn’t expect to see you today, that’s all,” Yeonjun says.

“Why would you?” you say.

“You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t even know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes because you’re really not going to have this conversation with him right now. “Yeonjun,” you say, firmly.

He bats his eyes, lets the smile creep over the rest of his features. “Yes?”

It’s hard to say the words, but you say them anyway. “I should go.” Maybe if you had all the time in the world, you would stay. You would stay, and you would talk. Maybe you would even try to figure out what went wrong last time. But you can’t. Jiung’s waiting in the car, and you’ve already taken longer than necessary.

He doesn’t budge from his spot in front of the door. You stare at him for a beat longer, and he finally does move, sidestepping you.

You open the door, and his hand shoots out, landing on your wrist. You freeze again. His hand is warm on your skin, and it brings with it memories you’ve tried to forget.

Yeonjun doesn’t speak. You turn slowly to look at him, eyes cast downward at his grip. They drag slowly upward to meet his eyes.

“Wait,” he says, and the word comes out more desperate than anything else he’s said. That bravado all stripped away, now.

The tension breaks when he steps in one more time, when he drops your hand to push the door closed behind you.

He’s too close. Too warm. Too suffocating. And somehow still too far away.

You move in slow motion, between moments where you’re both frozen looking at one another and moments where time slams back into full speed, ticking by in your ears, but you still don’t move—contemplating the next step, and the next. And your heart is racing out of your chest, and he’s looking at you like it’s years in the past, and you can’t seem to remember anything except how his lips used to feel against yours.

He can’t take it, either. The intoxication of you. If you just hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t been there today, if he hadn’t seen you. He would be able to keep pretending you didn’t mean something. But you’re here, standing in front of him, and he can’t just let you leave again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, right before he closes the distance. “I just—I have to—” and then his hands are cupping your cheeks and his lips are on yours.

You hardly register the apology, let alone feel bad for what’s happening. The electricity in the air doesn’t fizzle at the contact. It surrounds you. Hot and blinding. You don’t stop him. Stopping him is the last thing on your mind.

Your lips move slowly, tasting each other and remembering. It hardly even occurs to you that you should not be doing this. Not when it feels so good, so right. Not when he’s holding you like he never should have let go in the first place.

You don’t break apart to speak, only to catch your breath, to change angles. He deepens the kiss as his hands fall from your face, tracing down the sides of your body before they land on your hips. He sucks on your lower lip, and you gasp into his mouth.

It takes a long time—longer than you would be proud to admit—for you to realize exactly what you’re doing.

You reach up to push against his chest. “Yeonjun,” you mumble against his lips. “Yeonjun,” you say again. “We can’t—I shouldn’t.”

His fingers dig into the fabric covering your hips. His eyes bore into yours, then drop back to your lips. He runs a tongue across his, and you lose track of what you’re saying, of why you’re saying it. “Why not?” he asks.

“I—” you start, trying to remember why this is such a bad idea. “He’s—”

You can’t bring yourself to care. That’s the problem. Yeonjun is here. He’s here, in front of you, breathing heavily, sweaty from the concert, looking at you like you’re everything in the entire world. And he’s here. How many times have you wished for this?

One hand hooks around the back of his neck, and you pull him back down for another searing kiss. He steps forward into you, pressing you against the door.

“God,” Yeonjun mumbles into your lips. “Missed you.”

The words and his fervent kisses awaken something deep inside of you. Heat flares at your core, and you think, absent-mindedly, that you’re so fucked.

“Yeah? Did you?” you ask, just barely breaking apart. Despite your anger, still ever present, neither can you stop kissing him.

The back of his hand drags slowly across an exposed patch of skin just above your skirt. His eyes are focused there, but they snap upward at your question. “What?” he says, before kissing you again, before snaking that same hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his body. “Of course I did.”

Your hands ball into the fabric of his shirt. His tongue slips between your lips, and you angle your head backward to give him better access. When you break apart again, to breathe, you’re still thinking about the anger beneath it all—and whether or not you have a right to it. “You could have called,” you say. “I would have answered.”

“Is that your way of saying you missed me, too?” he asks. “I’m here now.”

He curls a finger under your chin and lifts it, soft brown eyes finding yours.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you say. But you don’t untangle your hands from his shirt, don’t take a step backward away from him, don’t even think about leaving. But it’s a thing you have to say. Even if you don’t know why, when it would be so much easier to ignore it.

“Yeah, and you seem really eager to get back to him,” he says.

“I am,” you say, pulling him down by the shirt. Then, “Take this off.”

He drops his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. Your hands shoot out to touch his bare skin immediately. Your fingers run over his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach. He pushes your jacket off your shoulders, and you let it fall to the ground.

Yeonjun laces one hand through your hair and kisses you again. Harsher this time. More desperate. His other hand sits on your hip, keeps pulling you closer and closer.

He presses against you, shifting one leg between yours and pinning you to the door. He slips a hand under your shirt, eager to touch any skin there. You gasp into his mouth at the mere contact.

“Fuck,” he says against your lips. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“He’s waiting for me, Jun,” you say.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. There’s so much he wants to say. So many comments he could make. He kisses you again, instead. He drops his hand between your legs, instead, reaching under your skirt.

He wastes no time—that’s what you wanted, right? His fingers brush your core, and he hums into the kiss. You can feel the smirk on his lips.

“Shut up,” you say.

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “Can’t figure out how to just ask for it?” he says. He pushes your panties to the side and nudges a finger inside of you, watching for a reaction.

Your lips part, and you let your head fall back against the door behind you.

“Trying to make me feel bad for wanting you when you have a boyfriend—but god, you want me just as fucking bad, don’t you?” he asks. You don’t respond fast enough, so he presses harder. “Don’t you?”

He slides another finger inside of you and pumps them slowly. “Yes,” you say.

“Yes, what?” Yeonjun asks, raising a brow at you, cocking his head to the side just so. He’s enjoying this. Playing with you even when you have such minimal time together.

“Shut the fuck up, Yeonjun,” you say as you roll your hips forward. “I don’t have time—”

“I know,” he says. “Your boyfriend.” He moves his fingers faster, savoring the feeling of you clenching around them, of you grinding to meet each thrust.

He pulls his fingers out and places them in his mouth while his other hand works to undo his belt, to push down his pants and boxers. He doesn’t bother kicking them all the way off. He licks his fingers clean, then takes your hand, tugging you toward the vanity.

He leans forward and presses another kiss to your lips, then along your jawline, to the space beneath your ear. “Turn around,” he whispers.

You listen.

He pulls you backward against him, and you can feel the line of his hard cock on your ass through your skirt. You grind backward into him and swear you can hear him grin. You place your hands on the table in front of you as he pushes your skirt further up your thighs.

You look forward, catching your own reflection in the mirror. Lipstick smudged, hair messy, and Yeonjun behind you, watching with appreciation as he runs a hand over your ass.

He spreads your legs with the back of one hand and uses the other to guide his dick to your entrance. He swipes the tip through your slick, taking his time.

“Yeonjun,” you whine, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. It’s not about time anymore. Not about being in a rush. You need him.

“Swear to god if you mention him one more time,” he says as he slides his tip down your slit again, pausing at your entrance for a split second before moving past it.

“No,” you say. “Just—need you.”

He places a hand between your shoulder blades and lets it slowly trail downward. “Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll make you forget his name.”

“Yeonjun,” you say again, whimpering.

“That’s it,” he says, reveling in the sound of his name on your lips. He presses forward into you, slowly, and your knuckles go white on the edge of the table.

You know you shouldn’t be doing this. But as he sinks into you an inch at a time, you can’t think about anything else. Not even the person waiting for you hundreds of feet away. And it doesn’t even feel like cheating, not really. It’s like returning back to the time you shared together before and enjoying it one more time.

“Fuck,” Yeonjun whispers as he bottoms out. His fingers press into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts slowly back. He snaps forward, burying himself deeper inside of you. Your legs shake, and moans fall off parted lips.

He does it again. The slow withdraw before a quick thrust. “Feels so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice dripping with want like having you again is making him a little crazy. He reaches forward to wrap a hand around the front of your neck, pulling you backward, making you look up.

Your eyes reach his through the mirror.

“Look at you,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s still rolling his hips forward hard and fast, and you can hardly keep your eyes open to watch him. “Maybe if I knew you were still such a slut, I’d have called you.”

Your fingers tighten on the desk in anger and pleasure, but you can’t seem to form words to talk back, not with the way he’s moving.

“Boyfriend waiting for you outside, but you’re letting me fuck you senseless instead.” He lifts one of your hands and pulls it behind your back. “Haven’t changed at all.”

You flip him off with the hand he’s holding back, and he laughs, lifting his eyes to meet yours in the mirror. He releases your neck to grab your other hand, too, collecting them in one hand and pulling you backward. Your back arches as he thrusts deeper, harder.

“Yeonjun—oh my god.”

He smiles again. “Can’t even hate me properly, can you?”

“Yes,” you mutter between broken gasps and moans that slip past your attempts to hold them back. “I can,” you say. “I do.” But you don’t mean it. What reason do you have, anyway, besides time? Besides the fact that he’s making you feel like this when you have someone waiting.

He tugs your arms sharply back, uses his other hand to force you upward, so your back is nearly touching his chest. He drops your arms and lowers his lips to your ear, slowing his pace while he speaks. “Go, then,” he says.

Yeonjun takes a step back, pulling out of you. He stops touching you. You turn around to look at him. Your eyes roll in annoyance, but you take the step forward anyway, reaching for him. He laces his fingers through yours and pulls you against him.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, before pressing a kiss into your hair. He kicks his pants the rest of the way off and leads you a few steps over, toward the couch. The backs of your knees hit the cushion, and you’re forced to sit. He kneels down in front of you. He places a hand on your cheek and leans forward to capture your lips. A brief moment of softness before both his hands are on top of your thighs, and he’s pulling you down. Your elbows hit the couch cushions as he pulls your ass completely off it.

He holds the backs of your thighs together with one hand as he uses the other to guide his length to your entrance. He pushes forward into you, and you gasp, biting down on your lower lip to keep from moaning.

Yeonjun holds your legs up by the back of your thighs, just under your knees, as he rolls his hips forward into you. Your lip stays firmly between your teeth, even as your head falls back.

“Come on,” Yeonjun says, his own voice devolving into a gravely, rough mess the longer this continues. “Let me hear you.”

His hips snap forward, deep and hard, trying to elicit something from you. Your eyes roll back and your back arches greedily, but you don’t let out anything more than a sharp gasp. He shifts forward, moving your legs to one side, barring them against him with one arm, while his other hand collects your hands and pins them to the back of the couch, while he leans over you.

The angle change makes it all the more difficult to keep quiet. You toss your head to the side to avoid his gaze, the lopsided smile on his face, and his blown-out pupils. It’s easier to focus when you aren’t looking at him. He laughs under his breath and thrusts forward harder, driving even deeper.

A few moans tumble off your lips without permission, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s pleased with himself.

You test the strength of his hand holding yours back, pushing against his grip.

“Don’t like being held down, pretty?” he asked, the soft lilt of his voice making you shiver. “That’s not what I remember.”

“I don’t remember you.” A moan breaks your sentence. “Being this annoying.”

“God, you love it though, don’t you?” he asks, slowing to an agonizing pace, languid drags that make your hips stutter, your lips part, your hands work harder against his grip. “You fucking love it. Look at you.”

Your next words are cut off by your phone, vibrating in your jacket pocket on the floor, a foot away from Yeonjun. His eyes shoot to it, and he stills inside of you.

“Yeonjun,” you say, a word of warning, because you know who’s on the other end of the phone call before he drops your hands and fishes the thing from your coat pocket, before he holds it up. A picture of your boyfriend on the screen, his name surrounded by hearts. Yeonjun’s finger hovers over the accept button. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you say, reaching forward to grab it.

He grabs your hands again, holding them in front of his chest.

“You should talk to him,” Yeonjun says. “He’s probably so worried.”

“Yeonjun,” you say again, sharply.

He clicks accept, then presses the phone against your ear, holding it there.

“Hello?” Jiung says, sounding a little more confused than normal.

You clear your throat. Yeonjun moves an inch, and you nearly bite through your lip. “Hey,” you manage to choke out. “It’s me.”

“Oh, good,” he says. “You found it.”

Yeonjun pulls out another inch, the slow drag against your walls short-circuiting your brain every time he does it. You’re glaring at him, but he’s just smiling, fucking proud of himself.

“Yeah,” you say. Another inch. “I—yeah, I found it.”

“You get lost in there?” he asks.

“No—no,” you say, breath catching as Yeonjun shifts forward, just as slow. “I should be right out. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“No worries, baby,” Jiung says.

Yeonjun rolls his eyes.

“I love you,” he says.

Yeonjun’s hips snap forward, and he buries himself fully. Your head rolls back, and your mouth falls open, but you don’t make a sound.

He stills enough to let you speak, and you’re looking at him, when you say it. “Love you too,” you say, but the words come out a fraction too breathy. You don’t have enough time to worry about whether or not it sounds suspicious.

Yeonjun pulls the phone away, ends the call, and tosses it back onto the floor. He releases your hands, and you lean forward, pushing his chest. “You’re an asshole,” you say, breathing heavily, trying to hit him and grab him at the same time.

“God, that was so hot,” Yeonjun says. “I bet he didn’t even know—didn’t even realize.” He laughs, starting his slow thrusts back up again.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him down. You can just barely mutter a “Shut up” against his lips before you kiss him. He returns your desperation, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth as he increases the pace of his thrusts. You break away to breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours, eyes finding yours.

Something softens in his expression, and your eyes fall closed under his kind gaze.

He pulls back, holding your legs upright again, spreading them so one rests against each shoulder. He drops a hand between them and finds your clit. His initial touch feels electric. He rubs lazy circles on it with his thumb, looking down, watching his cock drive into you over and over, harder and harder as you squirm, clenching around him while he increases the stimulation.

“Yeonjun, fuck, oh my god,” you moan, dropping your head backward.

He moans, too, the sound music to your ears. He places his other hand low on your stomach, flat—feeling himself fuck into you. “Fuck, baby,” he says, soft and reckless, enough to make you forget about anything else, anyone else. “You feel so goddamn good, it’s insane.”

He rolls your clit between two fingers, and you clench hard around him, slowing his pace a fraction. Your bach archs even more, and your hands reach out for something to hold onto, settling on the edge of the couch. You press yourself forward, hips rising to meet each thrust even as your thighs shake.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Come on, baby, please.”

You say his name again, like a prayer—even though it feels fucking damning.

And when you cum, it’s with his lips crashing into yours, capturing your moans, and your hands grasping his bare skin, taking everything you can get.

You collapse back against the couch. For a moment, Yeonjun doesn’t move. He trails a few fingers along your jawline. His eyes wander your face. They meet your eyes, then shift away. He pulls out and stands up, quickly putting on his boxers and pants. You study the muscles in his back and the way they tense, before snapping back into reality.

You shift your underwear back into place and stand up, smoothing out your skirt. You pick your jacket up off the ground and slip your phone back into your pocket.

The room is dead silent, and Yeonjun won’t turn to look at you.

You clear your throat, and he does. “I should—um,” you say, dropping your eyes away from his gaze. You can’t even look at him, now. Not after that. Not when you have to go back to your boyfriend, waiting in the car, oblivious.

Yeonjun takes a step forward and fixes your hair, combing his fingers through it. He runs a finger just under your lip, wiping away some of the smudged lipstick.

You do look up at him, then, eyes widened, trying to figure him out.

“Do you love him?” Yeonjun asks as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

The question makes you freeze. “Yes,” you say, after a moment. It’s the gut reaction. The answer you’re supposed to give. It’s not the truth. “No,” you say, but that doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking down at you, keeps adjusting your hair. It’s probably fine now, but he can’t stand the idea of ceasing physical contact. If he drops his hand, when will he get to touch you again?

Yeonjun nods.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft—almost broken. Something sad behind the word. An acceptance, maybe. He takes a step back, away from you and the heavy tension pressing on your shoulders.

He leans down next to a backpack and fishes something out.

He closes the distance again and presses a card into your hand.

“What—” you start to ask.

“That’s the key to my room,” he says.

“I can’t—”

“Break up with him, then come to my room tonight,” Yeonjun says. “Or don’t break up with him, I don’t care. Just come.”

You can’t bring yourself to look down at the card in your hand, can’t bring yourself to look away from his intense eye contact.

“Hell, I’ll be there for the next few days,” he says. “If you don’t come, I’ll know this didn’t mean anything.”

“Yeonjun—” you say, like you can figure this out now, talk this through now.

“You should go,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss into your hair. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, and you leave—hurrying out of the venue on shaky legs with your phone and an ultimatum.