eros.

You had been watching him for weeks before you said anything. That was the part nobody understood. They thought correction arrived the moment a mistake appeared, sharp and immediate, like a blade striking bone. They did not see the quiet work before it. The watching. The pattern. The difference between one tired take and a habit. The difference between a performer protecting himself and a performer hiding behind the fact that nobody in the room wanted to ask more of him. As assistant director, your job was not only to keep the day moving. It was not only call sheets, timing, notes, performer safety, angles, blocking, and keeping the room from slipping into chaos. Your job was to notice what the camera caught and what everyone else pretended it did not. 

Jungkook knew how to fill a frame. He knew how to make people lean closer to a monitor without realizing they had moved. He knew how to hold still in ways that felt like threat. He knew exactly how much of his mouth to show when he smiled, exactly when to look down, exactly when to look back up through his lashes like he had already ruined someone and was only waiting for them to admit it. He knew bodies. He knew angles. He knew the language of being watched. But his eyes kept leaving, and that was what bothered you. Not because it ruined the fantasy. You did not care about fantasy in the way other people did. You cared about truth, even inside the machinery of desire. Especially there. A scene could be staged, lit, blocked, sold, watched, and still carry a living pulse if the people inside it were present. If their reactions were alive. If their silence meant something. If their eyes did not go empty the moment their bodies did what everyone expected. Jungkook’s body was flawless, but his eyes were waiting for the day to end. 

“Cut,” you said. 

The word left your mouth before Namjoon could say it. One of the camera assistants looked at you. The boom operator shifted. The performer opposite Jungkook blinked, relief and irritation passing over her face so quickly you almost missed it. Namjoon, sitting just behind you, lifted his eyes from the monitor. Jungkook stopped moving. Slowly. He turned his head toward you with the controlled disbelief of a man deciding whether to laugh at someone or ruin their day. You kept your eyes on the monitor for one second longer, because the monitor never lied. People did. Bodies did. Beautiful faces did. A performer could fill a room with heat and still show nothing real in the eyes. Jungkook’s eyes had been empty. Again. 

“Problem?” he asked. 

His voice carried across the set, rough and bored and already half-amused. He stood beneath the warm studio lights in black, skin gleaming faintly under the heat, hair pushed back from his face, mouth swollen into something obscene even at rest. He looked like exactly what everyone expected him to look like. That was not enough for you. 

“You are not really here,” you said. 

The room went even quieter. 

Jungkook’s brows lifted. “Sorry?” 

“You heard me.” 

Namjoon’s hand hovered near the talkback like he was deciding whether to save you from yourself. You did not look at him. Jungkook’s stare sharpened. 

“You want to say that again?” 

“You moved correctly,” you said, still looking at the monitor. “Your body hit every mark. The angle works. The lighting works. Technically, everything is there.” 

His mouth curled. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.” 

“It was not.” 

A few people forgot how to breathe. You finally looked at him. 

“Your eyes are not in the scene.” 

Something changed in his face. Not much. Nothing dramatic. A tightening around the mouth. A flicker of annoyance behind the eyes. Not because you had insulted him, you thought, but because you had found the right place to press. 

Jungkook leaned back slightly. “My eyes?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are directing my eyes now?” 

“I am correcting the thing that makes the scene false.” 

The silence that followed was loud. Jungkook stared at you for another second, then laughed once. It was humourless and low. 

“Brave.” 

“No,” you said. “Observant.” 

Namjoon made a small sound behind you. Warning, maybe. Amusement, maybe. You were not sure. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to the monitor, then back to you. 

“And what do my eyes need to do, boss?” 

The word boss landed like a threat dressed as a joke. You did not flinch. 

“Follow your body.” 

His expression went still. 

“Right now, your body is doing the work and your eyes are waiting for the scene to be over. You look bored.” 

His jaw flexed. 

“You look like you know everyone will accept it because you are pretty enough to make them forget you are not present.” 

The entire set disappeared for half a second. There was only Jungkook looking at you, and you looking back, and something sharp passing between you that neither of you had language for yet. Then he smiled. It was not nice. 

“Pretty enough?” he repeated. 

You held his stare. “Was that the only part you heard?” 

The performer beside him covered a laugh badly with a cough. Jungkook did not look away from you. 

“Run it again,” Namjoon said finally, his voice careful. “From the last mark.” 

Jungkook turned back to his position. His shoulders were loose, but the back of his neck had gone tight. You watched the monitor. This time, when the scene began, his body moved the same way. Perfectly. But his eyes were different. Angry, yes. Irritated, absolutely. Slightly murderous, probably. But present. There was a pulse behind them now, a dangerous attention that had not been there before. He looked into the scene like he was looking at something he wanted to fight. Or someone. 

You leaned forward slightly. 

“There,” you said quietly, mostly to yourself. 

Jungkook’s gaze flicked toward the monitor for the smallest second. He had heard you. That was the first mistake. 

The second mistake was that you praised him again two days later. Not warmly. Not generously. You were not foolish enough to feed a man like Jungkook praise with your hands open. You gave it sparingly, professionally, like medicine measured in drops. 

“You were present today,” you said after a difficult take. 

He had been waiting near the monitors as if he was only passing by. He did that often now. Drifted close enough to hear your notes, far enough to pretend he did not care whether you gave them. Jungkook looked at you. 

“You say that like I was previously dead.” 

“You were professionally absent.” 

“Professionally absent,” he repeated. “That sounds like an expensive insult.” 

“It is free.” 

His mouth twitched. You looked down at your notes. 

“Your eyes followed your body today. The scene worked because you let the reaction arrive before the movement.” 

“You always talk like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you are diagnosing ghosts.” 

You glanced up. “Only when I see one.” 

For once, Jungkook did not have an immediate answer. 

That was when it started. Not love. Not even desire, not exactly. Desire had been there from the beginning, inconvenient and irritating, coiled beneath every argument and correction and look across the monitor. Desire was easy. Boring, almost. The studio ran on desire the way cities ran on electricity. What started then was worse. Jungkook began asking for you. 

Not directly at first. Men like him rarely handed over evidence that cleanly. He asked Namjoon whether you were covering a scene. He complained if someone else gave him notes. He pretended your corrections annoyed him and then did them exactly. He fought harder when you were watching and listened more carefully when you were the one speaking. He became addicted to being caught. You knew because his laziness changed shape. Before, it had been beautiful and casual, the laziness of someone who knew the room would forgive him. After, when he missed something, it felt deliberate. Like a dare. Like he wanted you to notice. So you noticed. 

“Again,” you said one afternoon. 

Jungkook looked at you from the set, sweat at his temple, mouth parted around a breath that would have looked convincing to anyone who did not know better. 

“You have got to be joking.” 

“Again.” 

Namjoon glanced between you both, then lifted his hands in surrender. “Again from the top.” 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. “What was wrong this time?” 

“You anticipated the reaction.” 

“I anticipated the reaction,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words and finding them stupid. “God forbid I understand timing.” 

“You did not understand it. You jumped it.” 

“I jumped it?” 

“Yes.” 

He stepped off his mark with a laugh that did not reach his eyes. “You want to come here and do it better?” 

“No. I want you to do it better.” 

That shut him up. The room felt it. The little shift. The difference between criticism and belief. Jungkook felt it too, though he would rather have choked than admit it. He did the scene again. Better. Afterward, he came to stand near the monitors, too close to be casual, too far to be honest. 

“You enjoy this?” he asked. 

“Doing my job?” 

“Making me repeat myself.” 

“When it improves the work, yes.” 

His mouth curved. “That sounded like a yes to me.” 

“Then your hearing is selective.” 

“It has to be. You talk too much.” 

“You listen more than you pretend to.” 

His smile thinned. There it was again. That pressure point. The quiet place where all his performance thinned into something real. You should have been more careful with it. 

Jungkook was not a cruel man, not in the simple way people liked to call men cruel when they wanted to avoid understanding them. He was defensive. Proud. Vain in the places he had been taught to survive through. He had a mouth that reached for blood before it reached for truth. He was used to being wanted and unused to being known, which made knowing him feel like trespassing even when he had invited you to the door. For months, you built something strange with him through the monitor. You corrected his hands, his pauses, his false notes. He corrected your patience by testing it every chance he got. You watched him become sharper, more present, more difficult in interesting ways. He watched you watch him and hated how much it mattered. 

Then one afternoon, in front of everyone, he used the wrong weapon. 

It had been a long day. Too many takes. Too much heat. A scene that refused to settle no matter how many times you shaped it. Jungkook was already irritated, his body restless, jaw hard, eyes bright with the kind of anger that meant he felt exposed. He had given you a good take fifteen minutes ago, and then he had lost it. Slipped back into the old ease, the old surface, the old beautiful emptiness that made your teeth clench. You cut again. 

“Your reaction is late,” you said. 

“It is not late.” 

“It is.” 

“It is a scene, not a fucking court hearing.” 

“You are missing the emotional turn.” 

Jungkook laughed, sharp and ugly. “The emotional turn.” 

The crew went quiet in that way people did when they sensed entertainment becoming danger. You kept your voice calm. 

“Yes.” 

“Maybe if you stopped staring at my face like you are waiting for divine revelation, you would see the scene is fine.” 

Namjoon said his name once. Low. Jungkook ignored him. You stood by the monitors, clipboard pressed to your chest, every eye in the room suddenly aware of you as a body and not a professional. That was his gift in that moment, and he knew it. He knew exactly where to strike. 

“You want me present?” he asked, mouth curling. “Or do you just like telling yourself you are the only one in the room who can see me properly?” 

The words hit harder than they should have. Not because they were true. Because they touched the private place your job lived inside you. The place that needed to be taken seriously. The place that had worked too hard to sit at those monitors and have a man in front of everyone reduce your attention to some embarrassing personal hunger. The silence after was worse than the sentence. You could feel everyone pretending not to have heard. You could feel the performer on set looking away. The camera assistant lowering his eyes to a piece of equipment that did not need adjusting. Namjoon going very, very still behind you. The studio lights burned Jungkook’s skin gold, but he was not the exposed one anymore. You were. 

And for one second, you saw the exact moment he realized it. His mouth remained shaped around the cruelty, but his eyes changed. Regret arrived late and useless, like a man running toward a door after it had already locked. You stared at him. Then you set the clipboard down carefully. If your hands shook, nobody saw. 

“That is enough for today,” you said. 

Your voice did not shake. That was what saved you. You walked out before anyone could see what his words had done. 

Outside, the air felt too cold against your face. You found the side alley behind the studio where people went to smoke, cry, argue on the phone, or become human again between scenes. You stood with your back to the brick wall and pressed the heel of your hand against your sternum once, hard, as if your body had become something that needed holding in place. You were not angry. You wished you were. Anger would have been cleaner. Anger would have given you something useful to do with your hands. Hurt was worse because it asked for honesty. You took out a cigarette from the emergency pack you kept in your bag and lit it with fingers that were steady only because you forced them to be. The first drag hurt your throat. Good. Pain with an obvious source felt kinder than the other kind. 

The back door opened behind you. You did not turn. The door shut. Silence. Then Jungkook’s voice, lower than usual. 

“You smoke?” 

You stared at the wall opposite you. “Sometimes.” 

He stepped closer. Not too close. For once. 

“I did not know that.” 

“There are many things you do not know.” 

He said nothing. You took another drag, then lowered the cigarette. Your throat burned. You stared at the ash trembling at the tip because looking at him felt too much like giving him the privilege of seeing where he had hit. Jungkook stood beside you, close enough that you could see his black shirt from the corner of your eye, the silver of his rings, the tension in his hand. He smelled like studio heat and soap and something sharp beneath it. 

“You were out of line,” you said. 

His jaw moved. “I know.” 

You looked at him then. He looked like the words had cost him something. Good. 

“You did not just insult me,” you said. “You made my work look like a joke in front of everyone.” 

His eyes flicked down. 

“You made it seem like my direction was personal. Like my attention was something embarrassing. Like I was not doing my job.” 

“I know,” he said again, rougher. 

“You do not get to do that because you feel cornered.” 

“I said I know.” 

“No,” you said. “You heard me. That is not the same thing.” 

Jungkook looked at you then. Really looked. His mouth opened, but no apology came out. You could see it fighting somewhere behind his teeth, too unfamiliar to arrive cleanly. He had probably learned how to say sorry in the worst possible places. After being caught. After being forced. After being made to mean it for someone else’s comfort rather than his own remorse. He looked furious with himself. 

You almost looked away. 

Then his gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers. 

“Can I?” 

You frowned slightly. “Can you what?” 

He nodded toward the cigarette. “Have some.” 

For some reason, that almost made you laugh. Not because it was funny. Because it was ridiculous, standing there with all that hurt between you, and Jungkook still somehow asking for a piece of the thing in your hand like it might give him something to do besides fail at apologising. 

You held it out. 

His fingers brushed yours when he took it. Less than a second, but your whole body registered it like a bad decision. He drew from the cigarette, eyes not leaving yours, then looked at the faint stain your mouth had left on the filter. 

“This was an indirect kiss, you know,” he said. 

You stared at him. 

“You asked for my cigarette.” 

“I did.” 

“So technically, you kissed me first.” 

His mouth curved, softer this time. Still wrong. Still him. 

“Fine,” he said, handing it back. “Then I kissed you back.” 

You should not have wanted to laugh. You almost did. Instead, you looked away because the wall was safer than his face. 

“Do not make this charming,” you said. 

“I am not doing it on purpose.” 

“That is worse.” 

“I know.” 

You took the cigarette back and held it between your fingers without smoking. The filter was warm from his mouth now. You hated that you noticed. 

“You hurt me,” you said. 

The words changed him more than anger had. Jungkook’s face went still. 

“I know,” he said. 

This time, it sounded different. Nothing was fixed that day. But something changed. 

After that, Jungkook began apologising in the only language he trusted: action. Coffee appeared near your monitor one morning, exactly how you drank it. He said nothing about it. You said nothing either. Another day, he followed a note without arguing. The day after that, when a camera assistant spoke over you twice, Jungkook looked at him and said, “She is talking,” in a tone mild enough to be professional and sharp enough to make the man shut up immediately. You did not thank him. He did not ask you to. But you noticed. He noticed that you noticed. 

For a while, that was the language. He behaved better. You gave less. Not because you were punishing him, exactly. Because hurt made you precise. Before, your corrections had carried heat, investment, a private edge of belief. After, they became clean and professional. You gave him what the work required and nothing extra. Jungkook hated it. You could tell by the way he lingered. By the way he waited for notes that did not come. By the way he made one almost lazy choice in an otherwise perfect take, glanced toward the monitors, and looked furious when you only said, “Reset from mark three.” 

Two weeks later, after a clean scene, he came to stand near you while the crew began moving equipment. 

“That is all?” he asked. 

You looked down at your notes. “Yes.” 

“You got nothing else?” 

“No.” 

His jaw tightened. “You always have something else.” 

“I gave you the note during the scene.” 

“That was technical.” 

“It was the note.” 

He leaned closer, voice lowered because the crew was still around. “Why are you being like that?” 

You looked at him then. He looked irritated, but his eyes were not. His eyes looked almost lost. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I am a stranger you are being paid to tolerate.” 

You breathed in slowly. “I am doing my job.” 

“That is not what I asked.” 

“No,” you said quietly. “It is what I can answer here.” 

For once, he followed the line you drew. 

Later, by the monitors when most of the crew had cleared, he came back. He did not swagger this time. Did not grin. Did not put his hands in his pockets like he was pretending nothing mattered. 

“I fucked up,” he said. 

The words landed awkwardly between you. You looked at him. He swallowed. 

“I know you are not angry.” 

Your heart gave a small, painful twist. “That took you two weeks?” 

His mouth twitched, then fell. “I know you are hurt.” 

You did not answer. Jungkook looked down at the monitor. It reflected the overhead lights in black glass. 

“I know the difference now,” he said. 

That did something to you. Something you did not let show. 

“You cannot fix hurt by trying to make me fight you,” you said. 

His mouth pressed tight. 

“You cannot bait me back into caring.” 

His eyes lifted to yours. 

“I did care,” you said. “That is why it hurt.” 

The room fell very quiet around him. Jungkook nodded once. It looked like it cost him more than any apology. 

After that, his trying changed. He stopped making mistakes to get your attention. He started working like he wanted your respect more than your reaction. He still complained, of course. Jungkook without complaint would have been a medical emergency. But the complaints shifted from defence into habit. Noise around effort. After one scene, he came to the monitor and asked, low, almost awkward, “Was everything okay today?” You looked up. There was no smugness in him. No “was that good for you?” No filthy little tilt to his mouth. Just a man trying not to look like he cared. 

“Yes,” you said. “You were present today.” 

His face went still. 

“Your eyes followed your body.” 

For a second, he looked almost young. Then he ruined it by nodding at the monitor. 

“About time my eyes got their shit together.” 

You smiled before you could stop yourself. He saw it. That was the beginning of the next problem. 

Jungkook did not know what to do with warmth except turn it into heat. 

There was another thing you had never said out loud. 

Before you worked directly with him, before you sat behind the monitor with a headset and a clipboard and the authority to call cut, you had known Jungkook through a screen. Not in the way you knew him now. Not as a man who went quiet when a note hit too close, or smiled badly when praised, or hid exhaustion behind arrogance. Back then, he had been safer because he had been distant. A fantasy with a payment button. A beautiful mouth, a cruel voice, a body that knew how to be wanted. 

You had been one of his top contributors under a username he had no reason to connect to your face. 

It had not felt complicated at first. You never treated him like he owed you anything. You never filled his chat with demands or tried to buy pieces of him that were not on offer. You watched quietly, gave generously, and left before the illusion could ask anything from you. He was a fantasy, and fantasy was easiest when it stayed where it belonged: behind glass. 

Then the studio put him in front of you. 

The first time you corrected him, the fantasy cracked. The first time you saw his eyes go empty while his body kept performing, something in you stopped being a viewer and became a witness. After that, contributing felt wrong. He was no longer only the man on your screen. He was someone you worked with. Someone whose false notes bothered you. Someone you could hurt if you forgot the difference between wanting and consuming. 

So you stopped. 

Jungkook noticed. 

Of course he did. A man like him survived by noticing who wanted him and what shape that want took. He noticed the generous account that went quiet. He noticed the absence more than the money. Later, he noticed the way you watched him from behind the monitor — not hungry in the usual way, not careless, not impressed by the parts of him everyone else forgave. You watched like you were trying to find the person underneath the performance. 

He did not confront you. 

At first, because he did not know for certain. A username was not a face. A pattern was not proof. And later, when suspicion began to feel less like coincidence, he still said nothing because naming it would have made it real. It would have exposed your private wanting and his own awareness of it. It would have forced him to ask why you had stopped watching him that way, why you could look at him through a monitor now and seem more interested in the truth than the fantasy he knew how to sell. 

Jungkook did not know what to do with that. 

So when the private message came through that night, sent to the username you had abandoned, you understood exactly what he was offering. Not only a call. Not only heat. He was reaching for the safest version of himself, the one you had paid to watch before you knew enough to ask for more. 

Live. Private. If you want it. 

You stared at the message for a long time. 

It should have been simple. Once, it would have been. Once, the distance would have made it easy to press accept and let the fantasy stay a fantasy. 

But now you knew the difference between his camera voice and his real one. 

Now you knew what his eyes looked like when they left the room. 

Now you wanted the one thing he did not know how to sell. 

The screen glowed in your dark room. He looked at you like distance was an insult. 

“Comfortable?” he asked. 

“Should I be worried?” 

“Always.” 

There was that smile. That terrible little curve. The one that had made hundreds of people mistake confidence for intimacy. But then he looked at you too closely. Not at the screen. At you. And something in the room shifted. The call was seductive. Of course it was. Jungkook knew how to be wanted. He knew how to create a private room out of light and voice and attention. He knew how to make the person watching feel chosen, singled out, dragged closer through glass. He spoke like sin was a language he had learned young and perfected out of spite. But underneath it, you saw the ache. That was what hurt. He thought this was what you wanted from him. He thought the hunger in your eyes meant he needed to offer the performance harder, closer, more directly. He thought he could bridge the distance between you by becoming the fantasy before you had the chance to ask for the man. 

You watched him and felt your chest ache with want and sadness at once. Not because you did not desire him. God help you, you did. Your body reacted before your pride could negotiate. But your heart kept reaching past the performance and finding him hidden behind it, watching you watch him, waiting to see if this was enough. At some point, his voice dropped lower. 

“You are quiet.”

“I am watching.”

“That all?”

No. It was never all.

His mouth curved like he knew exactly what watching meant, but his eyes gave him away before his body did. Jungkook leaned back against the pillows, phone angled carelessly in one hand, the other sliding down his stomach with a slowness that felt practised at first. Too practised. Too camera-aware. He watched your face on the screen as his hand disappeared lower, his breath changing before he let the sound reach you. When his fingers wrapped around his hard cock, his jaw tightened, the smugness in his mouth flickering under the first rough pull. He tried to make it look easy. He tried to make it look like another performance, another private show, another thing he knew how to sell without giving anything real away. But then your name left his mouth, low and almost unwilling, and the rhythm of his hand faltered. Once. Twice. Like imagining you there had ruined the timing he usually controlled. His thumb dragged over the sensitive head with a sharp inhale, his hips lifting into his own fist before he caught himself and laughed under his breath, rough and embarrassed by how quickly you had gotten under his skin.

“See?” he murmured, voice lower now, less polished around the edges. “This is what you do. You sit there looking at me like you are not eating me alive through the screen, and I am supposed to act normal?”

"I need you to see what you do to me."

He tightened his hand around his hard cock, worked himself slower, rougher, letting you see the way his body reacted even when his mouth kept trying to turn it into arrogance. His eyes stayed on yours. That was the dangerous part. Not the movement, not the exposed heat of him, not the filth of his voice when he told you he had thought about your hands on him more than once. It was the fact that, for a second, he forgot to perform. His face shifted open with need before he could hide it, brows drawing together, breath catching hard in his throat as his hand moved faster. He looked beautiful, yes. Obscene, yes. But beneath that, he looked almost angry with himself for wanting you in a way the camera could not make clean.

“You wanted to watch me, honey?” he said, but the words shook at the end. “Then watch properly.”

You looked at him through the screen, at the beautiful face, the vulgar mouth, the eyes that kept searching yours for proof.

“You are good at this,” you said softly.

His smile flickered. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

Something about the answer disappointed him. Or maybe it disappointed you. Because good at this was not what you wanted to say. You wanted to say: I see you trying to offer me the thing everyone else wants because you do not know what else you are allowed to give. You wanted to say: I want the part of you that does not know what to do when I praise your eyes. You wanted to say: stop performing for me and come here. But you did not. 

You pulled back without meaning to. Jungkook noticed. He misunderstood. The next week, he became worse. More jokes. More innuendos. More accidental glances. More filthy comments dropped under his breath when he walked past the monitors. He performed harder because he thought the performance was what had worked before. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted him to stop offering you the mask when all you wanted was the man. 

Then Jimin arrived. 

Jimin was beautiful in a way that looked manufactured. Smooth where Jungkook was rough. Polished where Jungkook was instinct. He had the sort of face that had learned early how much attention it could earn and never developed anything interesting enough to keep it. He lowered his voice when he spoke to you, as if roughness could be borrowed by dropping an octave. The first time he did it, Jungkook looked up from across the set. You caught the look. Jimin did too. That was the beginning of his mistake. 

Jimin asked for your notes too often. Not because he wanted the work better. Because he wanted the thing Jungkook had. Your attention. 

“What do you think?” Jimin asked after a take, coming to stand too close to the monitors. 

“You hit the marks,” you said. “The reaction is clean. Keep your left shoulder open on the turn.” 

He smiled. “That is it?” 

“That is it.” 

His eyes moved briefly to Jungkook, who stood near the edge of the set with a towel around his neck and murder in his eyes. 

“You give him more.” 

You looked at Jimin. “He needs more.” 

Jungkook laughed once from across the room. Jimin’s jaw flexed. Another day, Jimin stayed after his own scene to watch Jungkook work. He leaned beside the door, arms folded, gaze moving over Jungkook with too much calculation. Jungkook noticed immediately. He always did. Jungkook’s next take was brutal in its precision. Not louder. Not showier. Better. Present. Every movement threaded to reaction. Every pause alive. His eyes found the camera and then, through the monitor, found you. You stopped breathing for half a second. Jimin saw that too. 

After the take, Jimin approached you while Jungkook was still on set. 

“So that is what you like,” he said. 

You did not look up from the notes. “I like performers who understand the scene.” 

He lowered his voice. “Maybe you should teach me like that.” 

Jungkook’s head turned. You looked at Jimin then. 

“I am teaching you.” 

His smile sharpened. “Feels different.” 

“That is because you are not listening.” 

Jungkook made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh. 

Jimin looked over. “Something funny?” 

“You,” Jungkook said. “Standing there begging for notes like a dog that learned one trick and wants a biscuit.” 

“Jungkook,” you said. 

He looked at you. You gave him one warning glance. He shut his mouth. That, more than the insult, made Jimin’s face change. 

Later, you heard Jungkook in Namjoon’s office. 

“Move him to someone else.” 

Namjoon sounded tired. “No.” 

“She does not need to deal with him.” 

“She is being trained for more responsibility. That includes performers who annoy you.” 

“He does not annoy me.” 

Namjoon laughed. Jungkook did not. 

“He is trying to get under her skin,” Jungkook said. 

“And you think storming in here proves what exactly?” 

Silence. Then Jungkook, low and furious, “He looks at her wrong.” 

“You used to look at everyone wrong.” 

“Not like that.” 

Namjoon’s voice softened by a fraction. “Then trust her to handle it.” 

Jungkook came out of the office a minute later, saw you standing by the hallway with a stack of schedules in your hand, and stopped. You lifted a brow. 

He looked away. “Do not.” 

“I did not say anything.” 

“Your face did.” 

“My face is very professional.” 

“Your face is a menace.” 

You almost smiled. He saw that too. 

Jimin’s first real mistake happened at the studio dinner. Namjoon had arranged it as a crew-bonding thing, which meant too many people in one room pretending not to be exhausted. The table was long, the lighting too warm, the conversation too loud. You sat with your back straight and your drink untouched, feeling the weight of people around you in that quiet way you hated. You were good at rooms when you had a role in them. Give you a monitor, a schedule, a crisis, a performer missing a mark, and you could stand in the centre of chaos with a steady voice and a pen in your hand. But social dinners were worse. No clear purpose. No clean edges. Too much noise and too many eyes. Too many people letting professionalism loosen around alcohol and pretending the loosening did not still have consequences. 

Jungkook sat beside you. He did not ask. He just took the seat, leaned back like he owned the air, and placed his hand on your thigh beneath the table. You went still. Not because you wanted him to move. Because you did not. His palm was warm through the edge of your stockings, fingers heavy but careful. He did not squeeze. Did not make it a show. He simply kept his hand there as if he had noticed something in your shoulders that you had been trying to hide from everyone else. Your breathing settled before your pride could object. 

Jungkook looked ahead, bored expression firmly in place, as if he was not currently holding you together under a table full of people. You turned your glass a little with your fingertips. His thumb moved once against your thigh. Barely there. A question. You did not move away. His hand stayed. Jimin sat across from you. Haeun, another performer with a sharp mouth and sharper eyeliner, was beside him, swirling wine in her glass. The conversation wandered through work, schedules, shoots, complaints, gossip. Jungkook contributed mostly insults. Haeun laughed too loudly at half of them, either because she found him funny or because she wanted you to notice she found him funny. You did not give her the satisfaction of checking. Jimin watched the hand you were not supposed to know he could not see. Then he smiled at you. It was too smooth. 

“So,” he said, “with all the scenes you watch, I have to ask. What would your favourite toy be?” 

The table shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough. Jungkook’s hand went still on your thigh. You held Jimin’s gaze. 

“Excuse me?” 

He lifted both hands. “Relax. We are all adults here. It is just a question.” 

“She does not need to answer that,” Jungkook said. 

His voice was not loud. It did not have to be. 

Jimin’s eyes flicked to him. “I was not asking you.” 

“I did not ask if you were.” 

Haeun gave a small laugh. “It is not exactly shocking dinner conversation in this industry.” 

Jungkook looked at her. “There is a difference between work and being a rude prick over pasta.” 

Her mouth closed. 

Jimin smiled wider. “I thought we were getting to know each other as a crew.” 

“Then ask her what music she likes,” Jungkook said. “Not what she would use in private.” 

Your heart hit your ribs once. Jungkook’s hand remained on your thigh. Steady. Grounding. You placed your hand over his under the table and drew a small circle with your thumb. He went very still. You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. His inhale broke halfway through, only you would have noticed. 

“If I were to use a toy,” you whispered, “it would be your hands.” 

Jungkook’s fingers tightened once on your thigh. A warning to himself, not to you. You pulled back and reached for your glass as if nothing had happened. But everything had happened. You could feel it in the way Jungkook stopped breathing properly for three full seconds. In the way his face remained bored through sheer violence of will. In the way his hand became warmer against your skin. 

Jimin saw enough. Of course he did. 

“What was that?” he asked. 

You looked at him. “Private.” 

“Oh?” His smile sharpened. “Are we not allowed to know what you two are discussing? I thought this was a crew conversation.” 

Jungkook’s head turned slowly. 

Jimin leaned back. “Come on. I am curious now. What is your favourite toy?” 

You looked at him for a long second. Then you smiled. Not kindly. 

“Do you often repeat yourself when women do not answer you the first time?” 

The table went silent. Jimin’s smile twitched. You stood before Jungkook could. Everyone looked at you. Your voice came out calm. 

“I prefer to keep my personal life separate from professional conversation.” 

Jimin opened his mouth. You did not let him have it. 

“And I also prefer not to confuse invasive questions with maturity.” 

You took your bag from the back of your chair. 

“Enjoy dinner.” 

You walked out with your spine straight. You made it to the hallway before the restaurant noise dropped behind you. Then the door opened again almost immediately. Jungkook. Of course. He did not touch you at first. That was what almost broke you. He stood close enough that you knew he was there, far enough that the choice remained yours. 

“I told him to keep your name out of his mouth,” he said. 

You closed your eyes briefly. “Did you?” 

“And told Haeun to shut up.” 

Despite everything, a laugh tried to rise in your throat. 

Jungkook stepped closer. “He crossed a line.” 

“I know.” 

“You did nothing wrong.” 

“I know.” 

He was quiet. When you opened your eyes, he was watching you like he wanted to do violence and did not trust himself to speak around it. You reached for his hand. He gave it to you immediately. His fingers closed around yours, warm and careful. For a while, neither of you said anything. The hallway was dim and empty, the restaurant noise muffled behind the door. Jungkook’s shoulders were still tense, but his hand in yours was patient. He did not demand that you talk. Did not ask you to reassure him that his anger was justified. Did not turn your discomfort into his performance. He stood there with you and let the silence belong to you. 

That was the first time you thought Jungkook might be safe. Not harmless. Never harmless. Safe. 

Jimin made the mistake of thinking Jungkook’s silence had been restraint without consequence. The set was busy that morning. Too busy. People moving equipment. Namjoon answering questions. You by the monitors, clipboard in hand, already tired despite the day barely starting. Jimin’s scene was simple. Too simple to justify how much attention he kept trying to draw. He missed a mark twice. Lowered his voice unnecessarily. Smirked in your direction after a line that was not written to land that way. You corrected him once. 

He smiled. “Anything else?” 

“No.” 

It should have been a normal shoot. It should have been another scene with too much lighting adjustment and not enough coffee, another day of Namjoon pretending he had control over performers with egos bigger than the set. Jungkook and Jimin were both present for a scenario that required rougher tension, and Jimin had spent the entire morning trying to outdo Jungkook. It was painful to watch. He made his voice too low. His movements too sharp. His dirty talk too rehearsed. Everything he did felt like a copy of a copy, all shadow and no heat. 

You corrected him twice. 

“Find your own rhythm.” 

Then again, more firmly, “You are performing intensity instead of feeling it.” 

Jungkook heard. Jungkook enjoyed it. Jungkook did not hide that he enjoyed it. Jimin did not take it well. The scene paused for a lighting reset. You were by the monitors, checking playback, when Jimin looked toward you with a smile that made your skin tighten before he even spoke. 

“Maybe your assistant director should come show me how she wants it done,” he said. “I bet she gives better notes with her mouth full.” 

The set froze. Not loudly. Not dramatically. It was worse than that. It went still in the way rooms do when everyone hears something cross a line and waits to see who will pretend it did not. Jungkook stepped away from his mark. His face changed completely. Not rage first. Control. That was somehow scarier. 

“We are done,” he said. 

Jimin laughed once. “Come on, mate. It was improv.” 

Jungkook turned his head slowly. “No. It was sexual harassment dressed up as improv because you are too stupid to know the difference.” 

Nobody moved. 

Then Namjoon stood from behind the monitors, his expression flat in a way that made the whole room feel colder. 

“Call legal.” 

Jimin’s face changed. 

That was when the joke left him. That was when he understood this was not Jungkook being dramatic, or jealous, or difficult, or possessive over something that did not belong to him. This was official. This was witnessed. This was a line being named by the room instead of swallowed by it. 

Namjoon looked at Jungkook. “Jungkook—” 

“No.” Jungkook did not raise his voice. “Handle him.” 

Jimin’s expression hardened. “You are serious?” 

Jungkook took one step toward him. “You treat work like a playground because you think being explicit means there are no lines. There are lines. There is professionalism. There are people here doing jobs. She is not a prop for you to aim your little ego at because you cannot make a scene work.” 

Your hands tightened around the clipboard. Jimin’s face reddened. Jungkook’s voice dropped. 

“And do not ever imply you are going to fuck her because she gave you a note. You are not that interesting, and she is not available for your insecurity.” 

Namjoon said Jungkook’s name again, quieter this time. Jungkook looked at him. 

“You want the scene done today? Get someone else. I am not working with him.” 

Jimin scoffed. Jungkook smiled without humour. 

“I am whatever she lets me be. You are nothing.” 

Nobody spoke. Then Jungkook turned and walked off set. Not toward you. Not dragging you into it. Not making your humiliation part of his performance. He left you standing upright, professional, protected without being handled. 

That was what broke you. Not the jealousy. Not the dirty talk. Not the way he looked at you like he wanted to devour every calm thought in your head. It was that he protected your dignity without making you smaller. 

You found him fourty minutes later in the back corridor near his dressing room, freshly showered and still angry. He had changed into black sweats and a plain shirt, his hair damp, his expression hard enough to cut glass. 

“Are you okay?” he asked before you could speak. 

“I am fine.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Not that answer.” 

You exhaled. “I am angry.” 

“Good.” 

“And embarrassed.” 

His jaw flexed. “You did nothing wrong.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” 

He watched your face. You stepped closer. 

“Thank you.” 

His expression closed. “Do not.” 

“Jungkook.” 

“I did not do it for thanks.” 

“I know.” 

The silence stretched. Then you said the thing you had been trying not to say all day. 

“I need you.” 

He went very still. You saw him understand. Not the words. The meaning beneath them. Last night had been restraint. His hand on your thigh under the dinner table. His voice in the hallway. The way he had stood close enough to protect you without turning your discomfort into his claim. Today was different because you chose it to be. 

“No,” he said first. 

Your heart dropped. Then he stepped closer, eyes dark. 

“Not if this is because of him. Not if you are angry. Not if you feel grateful. Not if you want to prove something.” 

Your throat tightened. “It is not.” 

“I need you clear on that.” 

“I am.” 

His hand flexed at his side. “You want me because you want me?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyes moved over your face like he was looking for the lie and hating that he could not find one. “Say it without thanking me.” 

“I want you, Jungkook.” 

He inhaled through his nose. “Fuck.” 

The kiss was rough enough to erase the corridor. He caught your face in both hands and kissed you like something in him had finally snapped clean in half. Not polished. Not practised. Not a kiss designed for a camera or a co-star or a fantasy package. His mouth was hot, impatient, almost clumsy with need, and that made it better than anything you had watched him do. He walked you backward into the empty set because the corridor was too exposed, because the dressing room was too far, because neither of you had any patience left. 

The set bed stood beneath the warm lights, dressed and useless. Jungkook looked at it. Then his face hardened. 

“Not that bed.” 

Your breath shook. He looked back at you. 

“Not where I fuck for everyone else.” 

That should not have made your eyes burn. He lowered his mouth to your ear. 

“The floor will do for you and me.” 

You kissed him first this time. He made a rough sound against your mouth, and then you were on the studio floor near the monitors, not graceful, not staged, not pretty enough for a scene. The floor was hard beneath your back. The lights were half-dead above you. The monitor desk sat nearby like a witness to every version of you that had pretended to be professional. 

Jungkook touched you like he had been starving badly and hiding it worse. He was crude, filthy, impatient. His mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, muttering things that would have sounded obscene from anyone else and somehow sounded like confession from him. He called you his clever little menace, his nightmare behind the monitor, the woman who had ruined his scenes because now he knew what real attention felt like. His hands were everywhere and still careful where they needed to be, tugging fabric aside, checking your face, following the way your body opened for him. You needed him biblically. You needed him in a way that was concerning to feminism. 

When he realised you were bare enough for him and he was bare enough for you, he stopped so suddenly you almost cursed at him. 

“I do not have protection.” 

You stared up at him, breathless. “I know.” 

His jaw clenched. “I am tested. Clean. I had the panel last week. But I do not have anything here.” 

“I know.” 

His eyes went blacker. “Do not say it like that if you have not thought it through.” 

“I have thought it through.” 

“I will pull out if you want.” 

“No.” 

Jungkook’s breath left him. “No?” 

“No..” 

His forehead lowered briefly against yours. “You are going to kill me.” 

“I want you raw.” 

His hand gripped the floor beside your head. “I am giving you one last chance to change that sentence.” 

“I want you raw,” you repeated, softer, clearer. “No barrier. No camera version. No performance. You. I want to feel you.” 

Something animalistic moved through his face. Then he kissed you like he hated how much he loved hearing it, one hand catching the side of your face while the other dragged down your body with desperate purpose, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, like he needed to feel every part of you before he believed this was real. His mouth was not polished now. It was hot, impatient, a little unsteady, his teeth catching your lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue, his breath rough against your mouth when your hands slid under his shirt and found warm skin. He made a sound into the kiss that did not belong to any performance you had ever seen from him. It was too low. Too real. Too close to need. He did not rush the first push. That almost made it worse. He held himself above you, one forearm braced near your head, the other hand gripping your thigh to open you for him, jaw tight, eyes fixed on yours as he guided himself in slowly enough for both of you to feel every second of it. The first stretch made your whole body go still, and Jungkook stopped immediately, forehead dropping to yours, every muscle in his body trembling with restraint. “Talk to me,” he said, voice wrecked already. “Too much?” You shook your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “No.” His eyes sharpened. “No is not enough.” Your legs tightened around his hips before your mouth found the words. “Keep going.” 

The words broke something in him. His mouth covered yours again as he pushed deeper, controlled but only barely, his body shaking with the effort not to take the moment too fast. He was hot, heavy, real in a way the screen had never prepared you for, and when your thighs wrapped higher around his waist to keep him close, his composure cracked into a curse against your mouth. He gave you another slow inch, then another, his hand sliding beneath your lower back to tilt you up into him, to make the angle easier, to make sure he was not only taking what you offered but meeting your body exactly where it needed him. “You feel—” He stopped, teeth clenched, his eyes shutting for half a second like he had to survive you before he could speak again. “Fuck. No camera in the world deserves this.” You laughed breathlessly, and the sound turned into a moan when he moved. Not a full rhythm yet. Just one slow drag out, one careful push back in, deep enough to make your spine lift from the floor and your hands clutch at his shirt like you were trying to keep him from ever pulling away. Jungkook lost his timing the second he heard you. His hips stuttered, and the hand on your thigh tightened as if your sound had gone through him harder than touch. “That is the sound I wanted,” he muttered, rough and almost angry with himself. “Fuck, make it again.” 

He moved again, deeper this time, and your legs locked around him properly, heels pressing into his back to pull him closer. The motion dragged a broken groan out of him. His mouth dropped to your throat, kissing, biting, then kissing again like he could not decide whether to ruin you or worship you. His hands were everywhere but careless: one beneath your back, one on your thigh, one moment gripping your hip to keep you steady, the next spreading wide over your ribs like he needed to feel you breathe under him. He found a rhythm that was not performance. It was messy, hungry, too intimate for a room built to manufacture intimacy. His mouth stayed close to yours, catching every sound before it could fill the empty set. His hard cock drove into you with growing desperation, but every time your face changed too sharply, his gaze caught it. Not stopping unless you asked. Not softening into someone else. Just seeing you. Adjusting. Learning you in real time with his body shaking above yours. “Good?” he rasped. “Yes.” “More?” “Yes.” His eyes darkened. “Baby..” Your breath broke. “Rougher.”  Jungkook went still for a fraction of a second, his face changing like the word had done something violent to him. “Do not say that unless you mean it.” “I mean it.” His mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss, more like restraint dying between you. “How rough?” You pulled him closer with your legs, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck. “Enough that I feel you tomorrow.” A laugh broke out of him, ruined and filthy. “Jesus Christ. You are going to kill me.” “Jungkook..” “I know.” He kissed you hard.

Then he gave you what you asked for. Not careless. Never careless. He shifted your thigh higher against his side, opened the angle until the next thrust hit deeper, and the sound that tore out of you made him lose his rhythm completely. His hips faltered once, twice, his mouth falling open against your cheek as if your pleasure had reached into his body and pulled him apart from the inside. “There,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction and disbelief. “That is where it is, is it?” You could not answer properly. Your nails dragged down his back, and he cursed like that hurt him in exactly the right way. He drove into you again, deeper, rougher, then stopped himself just enough to look at your face. “Say it,” he demanded, breath ragged. “Tell me.” “Right there.” His control cracked wider. “Fuck.” He kept that angle, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh as he pushed into you with a desperation that made the whole room feel too small. The floor was hard beneath your back, the lights too bright above you, the set bed standing useless beside you, but none of it felt staged. None of it felt like something that could be watched. His body covered yours too completely for that. His hands kept finding you, holding you, lifting you into him, making the rawness feel less like recklessness and more like dangerous trust. 

You wrapped both legs tighter around his waist, refusing to let him retreat even an inch. Jungkook noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes dropped to where you held him, then lifted back to your face with something feral and almost tender in them.

“You keeping me there?” he asked, voice low and dirty.

“You want me deeper than this?” Your answer came out as a moan when he moved again. His jaw clenched. “Deeper.” That did it.  Jungkook’s mouth crashed into yours, and the next thrust shoved the breath out of you so completely he had to catch the back of your head in his palm, cradling you even while his body went rough. He kissed the sound out of your mouth, then dragged his lips to your jaw, your throat, the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Like that?” he asked. “That deep?” “Yes.. Please..” The please ruined him. You felt it in the way his rhythm broke, in the way his hand slid under your back and pulled you up harder against him, in the way his mouth went slack against your skin for one breath before he buried a curse there. He was not smooth anymore. He was not controlled in the pretty way people paid for. He was desperate, breathing hard, trying to keep enough of himself intact to watch you while the rest of him wanted to take, take, take. “Do you have any idea what you sound like?” he muttered against your throat. “Do you have any fuckin’ idea what you do to me when you moan like that?” You turned your face toward his, mouth brushing his cheek. “Show me.” His whole body shuddered. “You are dangerous,” he said. “You like it.” “I fuckin’ love it.” 

Then he moved harder, the rhythm rougher now, less careful in shape but still careful in instinct. His hand stayed between your head and the floor when your body slid back. His palm protected your hip from the ground when he changed the angle. His mouth kept returning to yours, not because it was soft, but because he seemed to need the kiss as much as the sex, like he could not stand being inside you without being close enough to breathe the same air. “Look at the desk,” he rasped. Your eyes opened. The monitor desk blurred at the edge of your vision. “That is where you sit and ruin my life.” You laughed, broken. He thrust deeper. “I am serious,” he said, voice rough against your lips. “All calm, all notes, all that pretty little face while I am out there working. Do you know what it does to a man?” “You seem to be managing.” He gave you a look so filthy it should have been illegal. “Badly.” 

He moved you after that, because Jungkook was never going to be satisfied with only one angle of anything. He pulled out with a groan that sounded almost furious, caught your hips before you could feel the loss too sharply, and lifted you like your weight was nothing but the consequence of his own bad choices. Your legs locked around him instinctively. His hands tightened under your thighs, and he kissed you as he carried you the few steps to the monitor desk, messy and blind and breathing hard against your mouth. The symbolism of it nearly undid you before his body did. The desk where you had watched him. Corrected him. Controlled him. The desk where his eyes had found you over and over again. Now he had you perched on the edge of it, your back lowering toward the surface while he shoved papers and a headset aside with one impatient hand. Even half gone with hunger, he was careful. He checked the edge with his palm before your spine touched it. He slid his hand behind your head so you did not hit the desk too hard. He kept one hand braced near your hip and the other at the side of your face, making sure the hard wood did not hurt you even while his body looked ready to ruin you. “This desk is fucked,” he said. You were too breathless to laugh properly. “Jungkook.” “No, I mean it. Ruined.” He pushed back inside you in one slow, devastating stroke, watching your face fall open as you took him again. “Every time you sit here, you are going to remember this.” You gripped his shirt. “So will you.” His eyes flared. “I remember everything with you.” 

Then he stopped talking because the rhythm turned too deep for language. The desk shifted under you with each thrust, the monitors trembling slightly beside your shoulder, cables pulling taut somewhere beneath the surface. Jungkook braced one hand flat beside your head and used the other to hold your hip, not letting you slide too far back, not letting the edge bite into you. He fucked you harder now, rougher than he had let himself be on the floor, because you were holding him tighter and your hips meeting him like you wanted every careful piece of restraint to snap. “Still okay?” he forced out. Your answer came out as a moan. His hand tightened on your hip. “Yes. Jungkook, yes.” “Fuck, honey,” he breathed, and the praise sounded like it hurt him. “Fuck, you are so good for me like this. So good taking me like you were made to make me lose my mind.” The words went through you. So did the next thrust. You arched into him, and he caught you immediately, arm sliding behind your back to hold you up against him. For a few frantic seconds, you were not lying back anymore. You were pressed chest to chest, seated on the desk with him buried deep inside you and his mouth at your throat, both of you moving in short, desperate motions because there was not enough room and too much need. The lack of space made it worse. Better. Your legs locked around his waist again, heels digging into him, refusing to let him pull back too far. Jungkook groaned into your throat. “You keep doing that.” “What?” “Pulling me back in.” “I need you close.”

His rhythm faltered again. Completely. One moan from you, one confession, and the man who made a living out of control forgot how to move. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his cock buried deep inside you and still as if he needed one second not to come apart too soon. “You cannot say things like that when I am inside you,” he said, voice nearly ruined. “Why?” His laugh was breathless and obscene. “Because I am trying very hard not to embarrass myself.” You kissed him, slow and filthy, then whispered against his mouth, “Then stop trying.” The sound he made was not human. 

After that, he gave up on pretending he could be composed. He fucked you like the room had disappeared, like the desk beneath you was not a work surface but a confession, like every note you had ever given him had led to this exact moment. His mouth kept finding yours, then your neck, then your shoulder. His hands kept shifting, one gripping your hip, one holding your back, one sliding to your thigh to keep you open for him. He cursed when your pussy tightened around him. He cursed when you moaned his name. He cursed when your nails dragged into his hair and pulled his mouth back to yours. “This is what you wanted?” he muttered. “Me like this? No camera. No distance. No pretty version you can pause when it gets too real?” “Yes.” “Say it again.” “I want you like this.” “Fuck.” His hips stuttered.

You pulled his face back to yours. “I want you to cum inside me.”  Jungkook went still for half a second like his body had forgotten how to survive the sentence. Then his face changed. “Do not say that because it sounds hot.” “I want it.” His throat worked. “Look at me when you choose it.” You did. His control died in pieces after that. He fucked you harder, still watching you, still careful with the edge of the desk, gone and almost furious with the pleasure of being allowed. “I am going to fill you because you asked me to,” he said against your mouth, voice ruined and filthy. “Because you wanted me this deep. Because my calm little menace behind the monitors is not so calm now, is she? Look at you. Wrapping your legs around me like you are scared I will pull away. I am not pulling away, baby. Not when you are taking me like this. Not when you are looking at me like you want every inch of my cock inside you. You want it? You want my cum that deep? Then keep your eyes on me and take it.”

Your climax hit hard enough to tear sound from your throat. Jungkook lost his rhythm the second he felt it, his hips stuttering rough and uneven, his mouth falling open against yours as if your pleasure had dragged him with it before he was ready. “That is it,” he rasped against your lips. “That is it, baby. Let me feel it. Fuck, you feel too good. You feel too good when you cum for me.”  His followed almost immediately. His mouth opened against your shoulder, body shuddering hard as he came inside you with a curse that sounded like it had been dragged from somewhere private. He held you so tightly through it that you could feel the tremor in his arms, the loss of rhythm, the final helpless push of his hips as he buried himself deep and stayed there. 

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Jungkook stayed there, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand still cupping the back of your head, the other spread wide over your hip like he was afraid the desk might take something from you if he stopped paying attention. His breathing was ruined. So was yours. Then Jungkook lifted his head. His eyes went to your face first. 

“You okay?” 

You nodded, too dazed to speak. His brows pulled together. 

“Say it for me.” 

“I am okay.” 

He exhaled, then looked down at the monitor desk. “Desk is still fucked.” 

You laughed weakly, and that seemed to settle something in him. He helped you down carefully, muttering about your legs like the problem was gravity and not him. When your knees trembled, he caught your waist immediately. 

“Yeah, no. You are not walking out looking like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I just fucked you on the monitor desk.” 

“You did.” 

“Exactly. That is the issue.” 

In his dressing room, he cleaned you up with a level of focus that made your chest ache. He gave you water. His hoodie. Space when your hands shook. His mouth stayed crude because he was Jungkook, but his hands were careful enough to hurt. 

“Put this on,” he said, pushing the hoodie toward you. “I am preventing a crime scene.” 

“A crime scene?” 

“You walking out with my cum between your thighs and that face.” 

Your face burned. He looked proud for half a second, then serious. 

“Still okay with it?” 

You looked at him. “With what?” 

“All of it. Raw. The desk. Me finishing inside. Do not pretend with me if that changes.” 

Your throat tightened. “I am still okay.” 

His shoulders loosened. “Good.” 

For a few minutes, the room held the quiet of something that had been split open and survived. Jungkook stood close, not touching too much, not crowding, but staying near enough that you knew he was there. He kept pretending to be busy with water, tissues, your clothes, the hoodie, anything that allowed him to care for you without standing still under the weight of it. You watched him because you could not help it. He moved like a man who had just crossed a line and was checking every inch of the ground behind him to make sure he had not hurt you on the way. 

When he finally looked at you properly, the crude mask came back crooked and late. 

“What?” he asked. 

“You are hovering.” 

“I am supervising the aftermath of your terrible choices.” 

“My choices?” 

“You asked to be fucked hard and raw on a monitor desk.” 

“You agreed.” 

“I am a weak man.” 

“You are many things.” 

He huffed, but his eyes were soft. You reached for his hand, and he gave it to you immediately, like the motion had become instinct. Your thumb moved over his knuckles once. He watched it, breathing a little easier with every circle. 

“What are we doing?” he asked eventually. 

The question sat between you, heavier than the heat had been. 

You brushed damp hair back from his forehead. “What do you want us to be?” 

Jungkook looked like he hated you for asking so gently. 

“I do not know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.” 

“That has never stopped you before.” 

His mouth twitched. Then fell. 

“I want it named,” he said. 

Your heart softened. 

“I want you to be mine in a way people understand when I stand next to you. I want to be yours in a way that does not make me sound like a fucking teenager with a playlist and a personality disorder.” 

You bit back a smile. 

He glared. “Do not.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are.” 

“I am listening.” 

His throat moved. “I want to be your boyfriend.” 

The last word came out like he was waiting for it to be mocked. You did not mock it. You touched his face. 

“Then be my boyfriend,” you said. 

Jungkook went quiet. Too quiet. For a moment, the crude man, the performer, the menace, the man who could make a whole room bend around his mouth, simply stared at you. You let the yes settle there, let him understand he had asked for something soft and had been allowed to keep it. 

“You are more than a pretty face,” you said. “I will help you understand that.” 

Panic crossed his face in the form of a terrible smile. 

“Is my dick game so good you are muttering nonsense?” 

You looked at him. He looked back. The smile faltered. 

“You are more than a pretty face,” you repeated. 

His eyes changed. 

“I mean it.” 

He swallowed. 

“I know,” he said, so softly you almost did not hear it. 

By the end of the week, Jimin was removed from the schedule entirely. No reassignment. No polite reshuffle. He was gone from the set, and nobody said his name again unless they had to. 

A few days later, it rained all day, and the studio heating had become temperamental enough that everyone complained. Jungkook had finished a late shoot, showered in his dressing room, and told you he would take you home after he changed. You were cold, tired, and wearing his hoodie because he had thrown it at you earlier with a grunt and no explanation. You waited on his vanity because the chair had clothes on it, the sofa had towels on it, and the vanity was closest to the heater. 

Jungkook came out of the bathroom with damp hair, black joggers low on his hips, towel in his hand. Then he stopped. You looked up from your phone. 

“What?” 

His eyes moved over you. His hoodie. His vanity. Your bare legs tucked carefully to the side. Your tired face soft in the dressing room lights. The domestic wrongness of it. The fact that you looked like you belonged there, waiting for him after work as if this ugly little room had become part of your life together. His mouth parted. 

“Jungkook?” 

“I feel a sin coming on,” he said. 

Your lips parted around a smile. “Hmm?” 

“The hoodie stays on.” 

“Come again?” 

His mouth curved. “Oh, I will. Trust me.” 

Then he dropped the towel. That was the only warning. He crossed the room and kissed you so hard you had to grip the edge of the vanity. His hands went to your thighs, pushing them apart as he stepped between them, breathing already ruined. 

“My hoodie,” he muttered against your mouth. “My vanity. My girl sitting here like this and expecting me to drive safely.” 

You made a small sound. He pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“You are cold?” 

“A little.” 

“Keep it on.” 

His hand moved to the drawer where you knew he kept condoms now, because Jungkook had become practical in the least romantic way possible. But before he could open it, you caught his wrist. He looked at you. 

“Can I have you raw again?” 

For one full second, Jungkook stopped functioning. Then he shut the drawer without taking anything out. 

“Baby,” he said, and this time the word was a warning to himself. 

You touched his stomach. “I want it.” 

“You cannot sit on my vanity in my hoodie and ask me that like you want me sane.” 

“I do not need you sane.” 

His eyes went almost black. 

“No, baby. After, I am going to be perfect. Water. Cleaning you up. Driving you home. All of it.” His hands tightened on your thighs. “Right now, hold onto me.” 

The dressing room was different from the floor. The floor had been desperate and symbolic, chosen because it was not the set bed, not a scene, not something anyone else could watch. The vanity was private in a way that felt almost worse. His name on the door. His clothes in the corner. His shower steam still on the mirror. His hoodie on your body. The room smelled like soap, clean skin, and Jungkook losing the last of his common sense.

He kept the hoodie on you.

Of course he did.

The second his hands found the hem and dragged it higher, he made a sound like the sight had personally wronged him. Not because he wanted it off. Because he wanted it ruined by the fact that it was his. His hoodie bunched around your waist, soft fabric pushed up beneath his hands while his mouth found your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, kissing you too hard to be gentle and too carefully to be careless.

“My hoodie,” he muttered against your skin. “My vanity. My girl asking for me raw like she wants me to stay normal.”

You laughed, but it broke into a moan when he hooked one hand under your thigh and pulled you closer to the edge of the vanity. The mirror was cold behind you, and Jungkook noticed before you could. His palm slid behind your back immediately, fingers spreading wide between your spine and the glass, keeping the hard surface from pressing too sharply into you even while his mouth stayed filthy at your neck.

“I am not going to be normal about you tonight,” he said.

“You ever are?”

He bit your shoulder lightly through the hoodie, just enough to make you gasp. “Smart mouth.”

His other hand gripped your hip, rough and possessive, but the roughness never went blind. He kept adjusting you in small, careful movements: your thigh higher against his waist, your back angled away from the mirror, your hand guided to his shoulder when your balance shifted. He looked half feral, hair damp, eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing you, but every instinct in him still knew where the edge of the vanity was. Where your body needed support. Where the mirror might bruise. Where his hand had to go before the rest of him lost control.

“Hold onto me,” he said, voice low.

“I am.”

“No.” His hand tightened on your thigh. “Properly. If your legs go, I catch you, but I want your hands on me.”

So you put your arms around his shoulders, fingers sliding into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and the way his eyes changed almost made you feel powerful enough to be cruel. Jungkook kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, his hands gripping you like he was trying to keep the whole room from stealing the moment. When he pushed inside you, it was not slow the way the floor had been. It was desperate, a little rougher, his body remembering what it felt like to be wanted by you and losing patience with the memory. Still, he watched your face. Still, he stopped halfway with a curse trapped behind his teeth.

“Okay?”

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Yes.”

His jaw flexed. “Do not give me the polite answer.”

“I want you.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I am okay,” you said, softer. “And I want you.”

That did something to him. His forehead dropped to yours for one breath, like he needed to gather the last thread of himself, and then he pushed deeper, filling the space between you with a rough sound that made your stomach twist. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, heels pressing into his back to keep him close, and Jungkook lost the rhythm before he even found it properly.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You keep doing that.”

“What?”

“Pulling me in like you cannot stand me leaving.” His mouth brushed yours, almost angry with tenderness. “You are going to make me useless.”

“You already said that once.”

“I am worse now.”

He moved then, and the vanity became something else. Not furniture. Not a place where he checked his face before stepping back into the version of himself everyone watched. It became yours. His hands, your thighs, the hoodie caught between you, the mirror fogged behind your shoulder, the little bottles on the surface trembling every time his hips drove into yours. He fucked you with the hoodie bunched around your waist and his mouth pressed against your throat, filthy and half out of his mind, saying things that sounded like complaints and devotion at the same time.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Sitting on my vanity in my clothes, asking for me like this. Do you know what you do to me?”

You moaned instead of answering.

His rhythm faltered.

There it was again. That break in him. That proof that your pleasure did not flatter him; it undid him. His hand slammed down beside your hip to steady himself, not you, and he laughed once, rough and breathless, like he hated that you had caught him losing control.

“No,” he said, eyes lifting to yours. “Make that sound again.”

“Jungkook.”

“Do it.” His mouth dragged over your jaw. “Let me hear what my girl sounds like when she stops pretending she is calm.”

The words went through you. So did the next thrust. Your head tipped back against the mirror, but his hand was already there, cushioning you before glass could meet bone. He was feral, but not gone from you. Never gone where it mattered. One hand behind your back. One glance at your face every time he moved deeper. One low command to hold his shoulders when your balance slipped. His care stayed hidden in the roughness like a secret he did not know how to say nicely.

“More,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened. “More what?”

“Deeper.”

Jungkook’s mouth parted. For a second, he looked ruined by the word. Then he gripped your thigh higher, opened the angle, and gave you exactly what you asked for. The next push made the vanity knock softly against the wall, and he caught your mouth with his, his cock pushing deeper with every thrust.

“Like that?”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“Like that. Please..”

The please nearly ended him again. You felt it in the way his rhythm stumbled, in the rough exhale against your mouth, in the hand that gripped your hip harder before immediately easing like he had remembered to be careful. He kissed you again, slower for half a second, almost helpless, then buried his face in your neck and started moving with a hunger that made your pussy clench around his cock with want.

“This is what you wanted?” he said against your throat. “Me in my dressing room, my hoodie on you, my hands all over you, no one watching, no one calling cut?”

“Yes.”

“You wanted me to fuck you here?”

“Yes.”

“Raw again?”

Your legs tightened around him. “Yes.”

He groaned like the answer had hurt him. “Jesus Christ. You say yes like that and expect me to survive?”

“You are doing fine.”

“I am absolutely not doing fine.” He dragged his mouth back to yours. “I am going to think about this every time I walk in here. Every time I see that mirror. Every time I put that hoodie on and remember you wearing it while taking me like you were trying to ruin my career.”

“You are dramatic.”

“I am fucking you on my vanity. I am allowed to be dramatic.”

You laughed, and the laugh broke apart when he changed the angle again, deeper and rougher, his hand sliding between you to find your clit. The mirror fogged more behind you. His breathing turned ragged. Yours was worse. He kept his eyes on your face like he could not bear to miss a second of what he was doing to you, and every time you moaned, every time your fingers tightened in his hair or your legs pulled him closer, his rhythm went uneven.

“That is it,” he rasped. “That is what I wanted. Fuck, baby, you have no idea how pretty you look like this.”

“Jungkook..”

“I know.” His voice broke around the words. “I know. I have you.”

He did. That was the dangerous part. He had you against the vanity, in his hoodie, wrapped around him like you were trying to keep him there, and still he was the one checking the mirror behind you, the edge beneath you, the placement of your hands. Still he was the one catching you every time pleasure made your body slip. Still he was the one kissing your temple between filthy words, as if the tenderness had nowhere else to go.

When you came, it hit you hard enough that your hands tightened in his hair and your legs locked around his waist. Jungkook lost his rhythm completely. His hips stuttered, mouth falling open against your shoulder, the rough confidence breaking into something almost helpless.

“That is it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it. Fuck, let me feel what I do to you.”

He followed you over the edge almost immediately, burying his face against your neck and swearing like the pleasure had offended him. His body shuddered hard against yours, one hand still behind your back, the other gripping your thigh, holding you close as he finished inside you with a final broken sound he could not turn into a joke.

Afterward, he did not move right away. He stayed pressed to you, breathing hard into your neck, the hoodie still bunched between you, his hand still protecting your spine from the mirror. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked at your face first.

“Okay?”

You nodded, still trying to remember how language worked.

His eyes narrowed. “Words, menace.”

“I am okay.”

“Still okay with raw?”

“Yes.”

“Still okay with me finishing inside?”

Your face warmed. “Yes.”

His expression softened in a way he would probably deny under oath. “Good.”

Afterward, he was exactly what he had promised. Perfect, in the worst Jungkook way. He cleaned you up. Gave you water. Made you sit until your legs settled. Fixed the hoodie over your thighs and glared at the door as if anyone might dare enter his dressing room and see you soft.

“You are going home fed, warm, and full of me,” he said. “That is the plan now.”

You looked at him, dazed and warm and still sitting on his vanity like your body had forgotten how to belong to gravity. Jungkook looked back at you. His face shifted then, hunger giving way to panic, panic giving way to something almost tender. 

“What?” you asked. 

He looked away first. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “We need to go on a date.” 

That was how Jungkook asked you properly. Not with flowers. Not with poetry. With rain against the window, his hoodie on your body, and his panic badly disguised as a practical decision. 

The date was arranged for the next evening. Jungkook arrived dressed like a threat who had been forced into elegance under protest. Dark suit. Black shirt. Rings. Earrings. Tattoos disappearing beneath expensive fabric. Hair styled but still touchable, which felt unfair to everyone with a pulse. When he saw you, he stopped dead on the pavement. You were in black too, legs in sheer tights, coat soft over your shoulders, silver bag catching the light. You watched his mouth part slightly. 

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he said. “Are you the dinner itself?” 

You choked on a laugh. “Thank you, I guess?” 

He looked offended. “That was a compliment.” 

“That was a medical emergency.” 

“You look good enough to make a man religious.” 

“You?” 

“I said a man. I am a separate problem.” 

The restaurant was quiet and expensive enough to make Jungkook look suspicious of the cutlery. He pulled your chair out with the stiff concentration of someone trying very hard not to mess up a normal thing. All through dinner, he looked at you with a question he refused to say out loud. Am I doing it right? You answered by staying. By laughing when his commentary got too strange. By touching his hand when he started doubting himself. By rubbing circles with your thumb across his knuckles the way he once had on your thigh under that terrible studio dinner table. His gaze dropped to your thumb. Then softened. 

“You do that on purpose,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“Manipulative.” 

“Grounding.” 

“Same thing if you are good at it.” 

You smiled. “You do not need to keep asking if I like it.” 

“I have not asked in at least seven minutes.” 

“Jungkook.” 

He looked up. 

“If something is wrong, I will tell you. You do not need to search my face every few minutes like I am about to hand you a performance review.” 

“You love performance reviews.” 

“I love communication.” 

“Filthy word.” 

“If this is going to work,” you said, “we need it.” 

His expression sobered. You kept your thumb moving over his hand. 

“I do not need you to be the perfect boyfriend.” 

He looked away first. 

“I need you to be there.” 

For a while, Jungkook said nothing. Then he cleared his throat and ruined the feeling badly enough to save himself. 

“I can be there. I am very hard to miss.” 

You laughed. He looked relieved. The rest of dinner became easier. He told you about food he loved, food he hated, the gym equipment in his place, the fact that he exercised at home because public gyms made people too confident with their eyes. He talked about music, about vinyl, about the way certain songs sounded better in the rain. He admitted he owned more books than people expected and glared when you looked too pleased. But he asked about you too. Not all at once. Not smoothly. Jungkook asked questions like he was trying to break into a house without leaving fingerprints. 

“What do you do when you are alone?” he asked eventually. 

You looked up from your plate. “That sounds ominous.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Read. Sometimes. Watch terrible shows when my brain is dead. Clean when I am stressed.” 

His eyes narrowed. “You clean when stressed?” 

“Yes.” 

“Terrifying.” 

“I also rearrange bookshelves.” 

“You are worse than me.” 

“You have an emotional support fridge full of food.” 

His mouth parted. “You do not know that yet.” 

“I know enough.” 

He looked almost pleased that you had guessed there was something ridiculous waiting in his private life. 

“I bought this book ages ago,” he told you later, “and I have not had the chance to read. If it is good, I will give it to you so we can share thoughts.” 

You blinked. “You can read?” 

“Oh, fuck you, that is not funny.” 

He looked down, suddenly shy, and smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the crooked one, not the dangerous one, not the one he used to make people feel chosen and stupid. A real one. Warm. Bright. Almost boyish. Your heart skipped so hard it felt embarrassing. He noticed you staring and immediately scowled. 

“Do not.” 

“I did not say anything.” 

“Your face is loud.” 

“You have a beautiful smile.” 

Jungkook stared at you like you had slapped him with kindness. Then he reached for his drink. 

“That was unnecessary.” 

“It was true.” 

“Worse.” 

After dinner, he asked you back to his place like he was asking whether you wanted to step into a weather system. 

“You can say no,” he said immediately. 

“I know.” 

“I am not asking only because I want you in my bed.” 

“I know.” 

“I just—” He stopped, jaw working. “I want you to see it.” 

His home. His real life. The place with no cameras, no monitors, no crew, no Namjoon calling for another take. The place Jungkook existed when no one was being paid to watch him. You said yes. 

His apartment was private in a way that felt intentional. Stylish, clean, controlled. Dark furniture. Warm lighting. A security system so expensive-looking you stopped in the entryway and stared. Jungkook followed your gaze. 

“Super fans,” he said. 

Your expression changed. 

He shrugged too casually. “People are weird.” 

“People tried to get in?” 

“Once.” 

“Jungkook.” 

“Twice if you count the one who sent locksmith tools in a gift box.” 

Your stomach turned. He looked away. 

“It is fine. The system works.” 

You understood then that his privacy was not decoration. It was armour. But then he kept talking. That was the surprising part. Jungkook, who guarded softness like state secrets, began showing you pieces of himself as if he had been waiting for someone to ask without making him feel foolish. Pictures came first, though he pretended they were nothing. Best friends in frames near the shelf, all of them younger and louder in frozen moments. He rolled his eyes as he explained one photo, but his voice softened at the edges. Then books with worn spines. CDs stacked with more care than he wanted to admit. Vinyls arranged in a way that looked casual until he corrected the angle of one sleeve with two fingers. He showed you the record player and touched the lid like it mattered. The gym equipment was in another room, neat and disciplined, not vanity exactly. Routine. Control. A place to put the restlessness people assumed was arrogance. Then the kitchen. A huge fridge that looked like it belonged to a family of six or a man with a deeply emotional relationship to food. 

He showed you things too quickly at first. Almost nervously. Like he was laying cards on a table and hoping one of them made sense to you. 

“This is stupid,” he muttered after explaining the order of his vinyls. 

“No.” 

“You look like you are taking notes.” 

“I am.” 

“On my apartment?” 

“On you.” 

That shut him up. His face changed, just a little. Then he opened the fridge like the appliance could save him. You stared. 

“Banana milk?” you asked. “Really?” 

Jungkook looked offended. “Would whiskey be more mature? It fuckin’ tastes great.” 

“I believe you.” 

“No, no.” He reached in and pulled one out. “You will drink one now. Do not underestimate the power of banana milk.” 

“I did not know you felt so strongly about it. My apologies.” 

“I can take criticism about my performance skills but not about banana milk.” 

“Oh, is this where you draw the line?” 

“Yes, it is.” 

He shoved the banana milk toward your face. You took it, laughing, and looked into the fridge again. Banana milk. Soju. Beer. More banana milk. 

“I hope to God you never mixed those to figure out if they taste good together.” 

Jungkook’s eyes went bigger. Your mouth fell open. 

“Jungkook. I cannot believe you.” 

“I do not care,” he said. “It tasted good.” 

“You are a menace.” 

“You are drinking it.” 

You drank it. It was good. You refused to say so immediately because he looked far too ready to be unbearable. The banana milk broke something open in the apartment. Not dramatically. Softly. Suddenly the guarded place felt lived-in. Warm. Ridiculous. His. 

He showed you the vinyls next. 

“I like listening to music to relax,” he said. 

“With a nice banana milk in one hand?” 

His eyes narrowed. “That is low even for you, you little demon.” 

You smiled. He played a record. The room changed around it. Sound filled the corners gently. Rain had started somewhere beyond the glass, tapping faintly against the windows. Jungkook stood near the window, arms folded, looking out. 

“When it is raining,” he said, “I sit by the window and look at the street. It is calming.” 

You stepped beside him. 

“So do I.” 

He looked at you then. Not surprised exactly. Relieved. The two of you stood there while rain moved down the glass and the music turned his apartment into something softer than either of you knew what to do with. Later, you sat close on the sofa. Then closer. Talking quietly about nothing and everything until tiredness settled over the room. Jungkook became awkwardly careful the longer the night stretched on, as if touching you was easier than asking whether you wanted to sleep there. 

You saved him eventually by leaning into him. His arm came around you immediately. The rain continued. The music lowered. At some point, without ceremony, without hunger needing to prove itself, without either of you making a grand decision, you fell asleep in his arms, in his bed. It was the first time you slept beside each other. Not the way the world would have meant it. The real way. Safe. Held. Unperformed. 

When Jungkook woke, he did not move. You were still in his arms, warm and heavy with sleep, one hand curled near his chest. Morning light softened the room. The rain had stopped. The city beyond his window looked washed clean. He stared at you with the softest look his face had ever carried. He had woken beside people before. One-night stands. Mistakes. Bodies he wanted out of his bed before the air became awkward. He knew the morning-after impatience, the silence, the need for distance. This was different. You were not someone to rush out. You were his lover. His girlfriend. The person he wanted closest in the rawest, most truthful way he knew how to survive. 

You shifted slightly. Jungkook stayed still. His thumb moved carefully over your hand, barely there. Like he was testing the reality of you without disturbing it. Your eyes opened slowly. For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then your mouth curved. 

“Good morning, sugar.” 

Jungkook’s expression panicked around the edges. 

“Do not call me that if you want me to function.” 

“You were staring.” 

“I was monitoring a situation.” 

“What situation?” 

“You in my bed looking stupidly pretty. It is annoying.” 

Your heart turned soft. “That was almost sweet.” 

“Take it or leave it.” 

“I will take it.” 

He looked pleased, then annoyed that he looked pleased, and pulled you closer like he was not ready for morning to take you from him. 

Later, in the kitchen, he made breakfast badly. Eggs too dry. Toast too dark. Coffee too strong. He presented everything with the pride of a man who had built a cathedral. 

“You cooked,” you said. 

“Yes.” 

“For me?” 

“No. For the wall. You can have some.” 

You smiled into your coffee. He watched you eat like it mattered. That morning changed him. You could see it happening. Jungkook kept looking around his own apartment as if it had become unfamiliar because you were in it. Your cup near his sink. Your bare feet on his kitchen floor. His shirt on your body. Your hair still marked by sleep. His home no longer looked only private. It looked shared. 

“Can you please stay with me?” he asked. 

The words came out soft. Exposed. Not possessive. Not teasing. Not disguised as filth. Please. You crossed the kitchen and kissed him softly. 

“Just one day?” 

“As long as you wish.” 

His face changed. Before he could drown in it, you tilted your head. 

“Is banana milk going to be involved?” 

He stared. “I told you about all of my favourite things and this is all you remember?” 

You grinned. Jungkook tried to look offended and failed. That was how your first ordinary day together began. 

“We can go to the library,” he offered later, as if listing options from a boyfriend manual he had found in a panic. “Have a walk. Go to the movies. Anything you want.” 

“The library and a walk,” you said. 

His brows lifted. “You are letting me into a library?” 

“You offered.” 

“I am regretting it already.” 

He was fascinated in the library. He tried very hard to behave. That was obvious. He kept his voice low, hands in his pockets, following you between shelves with the quiet concentration of a dangerous man trying not to offend books. You picked up a novel and read the back. Jungkook watched you like the act of choosing a book was somehow intimate. 

Then you glanced at him and asked, very softly, “Have you ever had sex in a library?” 

Jungkook froze. His head turned slowly. 

“Who are you and what have you done to my girlfriend?” 

You pressed your lips together. He looked delighted. Horrified, but delighted. 

“You are a lot worse than you pretend.” 

“You are a bad influence.” 

“I am a public service.” 

After the library, you walked until the afternoon turned gold. His hand found yours naturally. No dramatic gesture. No announcement. Just fingers threading together as if your bodies had learned the rhythm before either of you did. He kept stealing looks at you. 

“What?” you asked eventually. 

“Nothing.” 

“You have a face.” 

“Everyone has a face.” 

“Yours is doing something.” 

“It is resting.” 

“It is not.” 

He squeezed your hand once. “I am thinking.” 

“Dangerous.” 

“About another book. Another walk. Maybe a movie.” 

Your chest warmed. 

“Maybe cooking,” you said. 

He gave you a look. “Ambitious, considering breakfast.” 

“You need practice.” 

“I need supervision.” 

“You respond well to direction.” 

His mouth curved. “Only from very annoying women.” 

That day taught Jungkook something quietly devastating. Love could be calm. It did not always have to be hunger, jealousy, protection, or intensity. It could be books. Walking. A stupid joke in a library. Your hand in his. Plans that did not need to be dramatic to feel important. Being a boyfriend was something he could learn. Not by being perfect. By showing up. Jungkook had never been good in the clean, polished way people liked to praise. He was not gentle by nature. He was not sweet in public. He was not easy. But walking beside you, hand warm around yours, he started to understand there was another kind of good. Being good to someone. Trying. Returning. Staying. 

You learned something too. The ordinary Jungkook was dangerous in a different way. The rough version had made you want. The protective version had made you trust. The vulnerable version had made your heart ache. But the ordinary version — the man buying banana milk, smiling shyly over books, holding your hand on a walk, asking whether you wanted movies or music or another day — that version made love feel irreversible. Falling for him was like falling from grace. Not into ruin. Into truth. 

That night, you went back to his place. It no longer felt like crossing a threshold. It felt like returning. The softness of the day followed you inside: the library, the walk, the handholding, the jokes, the little future-shaped plans. It settled around the room with the low light and the sound of Jungkook moving behind you, quieter than usual. In the bedroom, he kissed you like he still wanted you desperately, but something in him had changed. He did not rush as quickly. Did not reach first for the version of himself he knew how to offer. 

You touched his face. He looked at you, and for once, he stayed. 

“Let me love you,” you said. 

Jungkook went quiet. 

The line hit him harder than any filthy thing you could have said. You watched him struggle with it. Watched the crude comeback rise and die behind his eyes. Watched him realize that being loved without performing was more exposing than being wanted. Then he nodded. Barely. But he nodded. 

So you loved him carefully. Not coldly. Not timidly. Carefully. You kissed him until his shoulders lowered. Until the hard, defensive line of his mouth softened against yours. Until the hands that had grabbed and steadied and protected you all day began to tremble because there was nothing left for them to fight. He tried to rush when the softness became too much. You felt it. The old instinct. The need to make intensity cover vulnerability. The moment his body wanted to turn tenderness into something he knew how to survive. 

You slowed him with a hand on his chest. 

“Slow down,” you whispered. “Breathe, baby.” 

His breath shook. 

“I am breathing.” 

“No, you are arguing with oxygen.” 

A startled laugh broke out of him. There. You smiled against his mouth. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, something in him had given way. You guided his hands. 

“Touch me here.” 

His eyes darkened, but he listened. Not performatively. Not like he was following a cue. Like he trusted you to bring him somewhere he had never been. When he looked away, overwhelmed by how gentle it felt, you caught his jaw softly. 

“Keep your eyes on me, please.” 

Jungkook closed his eyes for half a second, then opened them. You could see him clearly now. Not the performance. Not the fantasy. Not the man everyone watched and praised for knowing how to look like he belonged in desire. Him. Exposed. Safe. Loved. 

He had never made love before. Not like this. He had been close to bodies. He had been wanted, watched, used as a fantasy, praised for intimacy performed beneath lights. But he had never felt this close to someone. Never felt softness hold so much want. Never felt care move through desire without making either smaller. 

“Come closer,” he said. 

His voice was rough. The words were not only physical. You understood. You came closer. Something in him broke open with relief. The bedroom became slower than the studio had ever allowed. No one telling him when to start. No one asking him to look good. No one waiting for a finished scene. He did not have to angle his face or make his body beautiful. He did not have to become the fantasy. Every time he tried, you brought him back with your hands, your mouth, his name. Jungkook. Not the performer. Not the body. Not the bad boy people watched and wanted and misunderstood. Jungkook. 

He let himself need you then. Not desperately. Honestly. He stopped trying to impress you. Stopped proving. Let your touch, your voice, your patience teach him that love could be felt in the body as warmth, calm, safety, being held. He loved how it felt. It was hypnotic. He pressed closer, breathing your name like it was the only clean thing left in him. His mouth was still vulgar when he lost control of it, still broken around curses and praise and helpless little sounds he seemed embarrassed by until you kissed them out of him. But the filth was different here. It did not hide him. It revealed him. 

“You are doing so well,” you whispered, holding him close. “My baby. My sweet Kookie.” 

Jungkook stilled. 

The name moved through him like light hitting a locked room. Kookie. No one had ever made him sound that soft before. His face changed in a way that made your own chest hurt. Exposed, cherished, embarrassed, loved. Like you had found the softest version of him and decided to keep it. He pulled you into a kiss. Not because he had words. Because he did not. The kiss was his answer to the tenderness. Instinctive. Overwhelmed. Full of something he had never felt before and did not know how to hold except by bringing you closer. 

Afterward, he was quiet for a long time. Not asleep. Not gone. Just full. His arms held you with a care that made silence feel like speech. Love had reached a place performance never could, and he seemed almost afraid to disturb it with his mouth. When words finally came back, they came rough. 

“You are unreal,” he said. 

You smiled faintly. “That sounds like performance praise.” 

His eyes sharpened. “No.” 

The single word stopped you. He touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

“Not that.” 

You looked at him. He swallowed. 

“I mean I do not understand how anyone ever got near you and did not see it.” 

Your throat tightened. He looked almost angry at the thought. Softly angry. Protective. 

“You have been sitting there seeing everything in me,” he said. “Dragging truth out of me like it owed you money. And I—” He stopped, frustrated with the size of feeling. “I do not think anyone has looked at you properly.” 

You let yourself receive it. That was important too. You did not dismiss him. Did not joke too quickly. You touched his hair, pressed your lips to his temple, and let his softness stay in the room with you. 

“I hear you,” you said. 

His eyes closed. 

“You are safe with me like this too.” 

Jungkook forgot how to breathe. He hid his face against your shoulder. 

“Dangerous thing to say to a man in recovery from emotional stability,” he muttered. 

You laughed softly. There he was again. Yours. 

That night changed the shape of his filth. It did not make him cleaner, gentler, or less impossible. If anything, it made him worse, because now every crude thing he said came with the knowledge that he would hold you afterward, feed you afterward, kiss your temple afterward like tenderness was no longer something he needed to hide.

After that, love followed you back into work. Not loudly at first. Jungkook was still vulgar, rude, allergic to behaving like a normal man, and deeply committed to saying things that made you want to throw office supplies at him. But the rhythm changed. He stood closer. Looked softer when he thought no one useful was watching. Respected your notes without turning them into combat. When you were serious, your word became final.

The work did not magically become easy just because you loved each other. Jungkook was still a performer. Bodies still moved under lights. Scenes still needed blocking, notes, resets, professionalism. The difference was that he no longer used the work to hide from you, and you no longer confused the performance with the man who came home to you afterward.

On set, you watched with a director’s eye. You corrected angles, rhythm, eyelines, false notes. You did not mistake choreography for intimacy, and Jungkook never made you pay for understanding the difference. He did not look at you to provoke jealousy. He did not turn co-stars into weapons. When you were serious, he listened. When the cameras rolled, he worked. When they stopped, his eyes found yours with a quietness that belonged to no one else.

One afternoon, after his scene wrapped and he had showered, he came up behind you near the monitors and wrapped both arms around your waist without thinking. The room went quiet. Jungkook looked up. Three crew members were staring. 

“The fuck are you looking at?” he snapped. “Like you lot did not figure it out a month ago.” 

The room immediately found other business. 

You turned in his arms, laughing. “You are impossible.” 

“I am efficient.” 

“You just announced us by insulting the crew.” 

“They looked nosy.” 

“They were nosy because you hugged me at work.” 

“You looked huggable at work.” 

You stared at him. He frowned. 

“Do not make that face.” 

“What face?” 

“The one that means you think I am cute.” 

“You are cute.” 

“I am going to walk into traffic.” 

But he kissed your forehead before letting go. The private jokes became worse after that. One day, while he stood too close to you by the monitors, you tilted your head. 

“Does anyone here know about your banana milk obsession?” 

Jungkook’s face changed immediately. 

“Don’t,” he said softly. 

Your eyes widened. “Oh. So nobody knows.” 

His mouth lowered to your ear. “Say anything and the desk will be my martyr.” 

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. He narrowed his eyes. 

“You are a lot more like me than you would like to admit.” 

“Well, nobody is perfect.” 

“That is harsh.” 

“Enough flirting from you today, honey.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

He still flirted. Still teased. Still found ways to be inappropriate in a room with expensive equipment. But he no longer undermined you. Never again. The thing he had once challenged in you — your authority, your professionalism, your standards — became something he protected. And he learned when to stop. That mattered most. A hand at your waist when the room was light. A dirty whisper when no one could hear. A look across set that promised too much and gave away nothing. But when you were directing, when your voice shifted, when your attention went back to the work, Jungkook let you go. Not emotionally. Never that. But physically. Publicly. Professionally. He gave you space because he loved you, not because he wanted credit for respecting you. 

Then, gradually and all at once, you became the director. 

It happened through work first. A schedule changed and Namjoon asked what you thought before approving it. A performer requested you specifically because your notes made scenes easier to understand. A difficult shoot almost collapsed under tension, and you fixed it with three calm instructions and a look that made the room remember who was in charge. Your name started appearing higher on documents. Then at the top. Then people stopped asking whether Namjoon approved before they listened to you. 

One afternoon, a performer tried to argue around your note instead of with it. Not rudely enough for a confrontation. Just enough to test whether your authority had weight when Namjoon was not standing close. You let him finish. Then you stepped to the monitor, rewound the take, and showed him exactly where the scene broke. 

“Here,” you said. “You are trying to look dominant instead of being present. The line does not need more force. It needs control. Do less with your face. Let the silence do the work.” 

The performer blinked. Namjoon, behind you, did not add anything. He did not need to. The performer went back to his mark and did exactly what you said. The scene worked. Across the room, Jungkook watched you with a stillness that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with pride. The title caught up with the work. 

Jungkook was unbearable about it. Not at work. At work, he respected you. That was the thing people never understood about him. Jungkook was allergic to behaving like a normal man, but when it mattered, he knew where the line was. On set, you were the director. His boss. The person whose call shaped the room. He argued when the work needed argument. He listened when the note was right. He did not undermine you. He did not turn your relationship into a joke for the crew. 

If anyone tried to talk over you, he did not take your voice. He cleared space for it. 

“She is directing,” he said once, mild enough that nobody could call it possessive and cold enough that nobody tested it again. 

Across the set, you met his eyes. He looked proud. No joke. No performance for a second. Just quiet pride that you had become who you were always becoming. Then, when the scene wrapped and you walked past him, he leaned close enough to murmur, “Director looks good on you.” 

You did not look at him. “Behave.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

At home, however, he complained like it was his civic duty. 

“If I had known making you director would get me overworked and underfucked,” he said one night, watching you collapse face-first onto his sofa, “I would have filed a formal complaint.” 

You groaned into the cushion. “You did not make me director.” 

“I contributed morally.” 

“You contributed stress.” 

“And inspiration.” 

“You are a disease.” 

He came over and sat on the edge of the sofa. You were too tired to move. His hand touched your back, warm and careful. 

“Too tired?” 

You turned your face enough to look at him. “Yes.” 

Something softened in him immediately. 

“Bath, then.” 

“Jungkook—” 

“No sex. Bath.” 

Your heart squeezed. He stood, already heading toward the bathroom. 

“You get to be boss at work. I get to be boss of making sure you do not die on my sofa.” 

“That is not sexy.” 

“I am very sexy when I am preventing collapse.” 

He ran the bath. Lit candles badly and too many of them. Made dinner that was only slightly better than his early attempts. Fed you on the sofa because you were too tired to sit at the table. Put you in his shirt. Got you into bed. Did not touch you for anything more than warmth. Jungkook wanted your desire, not your obligation. That was how you knew he had changed. 

Not because he became good in the way people meant when they said good. Jungkook would never be clean enough for that word. He was still crude. Still jealous sometimes. Still complained when you scheduled him for early call times. Still told you the new male performers needed “less hair gel and more personality.” Still kissed you in corridors when he thought no one useful was watching. But he came home. He stayed. He learned the shape of care and wore it badly but sincerely. And when you did want him, he still loved you with the same rude mouth and careful hands, sometimes soft enough to make you cry, sometimes rough enough to leave you breathless and laughing into his shoulder afterward. The difference was that nothing felt performed anymore. Not with him. Not at home. Not in the bed that had become yours as much as his. 

The almost-confession happened three times before the real one. Once in the kitchen, when you were wearing his shirt and trying to fix his coffee because his version tasted like punishment. He looked at you, hair messy, face soft, and said, “I love—” before turning it into, “I love when you act like my coffee is a human rights violation.” 

“It is.” 

“You wound me.” 

“You need wounding.” 

Once at work, after you corrected a difficult scene so perfectly that the whole room shifted around your direction, he stared at you afterward and said, “I love—” then panicked and added, “I love when Namjoon pretends he understands camera language.” 

Namjoon, from across the room, said, “I heard that.” 

“Good,” Jungkook said. “Grow from it.” 

And once during a quiet film night, when you wore a ridiculous shirt you had bought as a joke. It said: 

DON’T GET HORNY AROUND ME. I’M AN EMPATH. 

Jungkook stared at it for ten full seconds. 

“I hate that.” 

“You love it.” 

“I hate that I love it.” 

You curled into his side on the sofa. Halfway through the film, he looked down at you with that same overwhelmed irritation he got whenever softness ambushed him. 

“I love—” 

You went still. He froze. Then his eyes dropped to your shirt. 

“Your stupid shirt.” 

You slowly turned your face up to him. Jungkook looked away. 

“Do not look at me like you heard the first draft.” 

Your chest ached. “Jungkook.” 

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine.” 

You sat up. He looked physically pained. 

“I love you,” he said. “I am saying it badly because I do not know how to say it nicely without sounding like a man I would bully. But I do. I love you.” 

Your eyes burned. He looked horrified by what he had done. You rescued him with a smile. 

“That was terrible.” 

His head snapped toward you. “Excuse me?” 

“Awful delivery.” 

“I just confessed my feelings, and you are giving me notes?” 

“You usually respond well to direction.” 

His mouth parted, then closed. Then he laughed once, helplessly. You touched his face. 

“I understood you.” 

His expression shifted. “And?” 

“I love you too.” 

Jungkook froze. Completely. You watched the words hit him harder than his own had. Saying it had cost him pride. Hearing it back cost him the last defensive thing he had. He swallowed. 

“Well,” he said, voice rough. “That is inconvenient.” 

You laughed through the emotion in your throat. He looked at your mouth. Then the joke left him. He kissed you softly. No audience. No set. No filth to hide behind. Just Jungkook giving in to being loved. 

One late night, after a long week of directing, you stood in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts while he leaned against the counter and watched you drink water like it was somehow the most important thing happening in the city. 

“You are staring again,” you said. 

“I live here.” 

“That does not explain your eyes.” 

“My eyes can do what they want in my kitchen.” 

You smiled. He looked at you with that familiar mix of hunger, annoyance, and love he still did not know how to carry elegantly. You set the glass down. 

“You ruined me for anyone else — and you know it.” 

Jungkook’s mouth curved. “Good. I worked hard.” 

You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, his expression softened. He reached for you and pulled you close. 

“You ruined me too.” 

Your throat tightened. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the fabric of his shirt on your body. 

Jungkook had never been a good boy. He had been vulgar, impossible, filthy, arrogant, and too proud of the damage his mouth could do. He had made a career out of being watched, desired, used as fantasy, and praised for the performance of intimacy. But you had found the man behind the performance. You had seen his false notes, corrected his lazy ones, dragged truth out of his body through a monitor before he ever knew your name in daylight. You had watched him become real. He had watched you stop hiding. Somewhere between the monitor glow, the empty set floor, the vanity, the real bed, and the quiet kitchen light, he had become more than the bad boy who brought heaven to other people. 

He became yours. 

Your impossible standard. 

Your rude-mouthed caretaker. 

Your bad decision with careful hands. 

Your little piece of paradise. 

If you thought you were already the epitome of irritation, this guy was far worse. He looks like he just clawed his way out of hell with how messy his hair is and how much sweat he’s drenched in. Not to mention the bags under his eyes and how flushed his skin looks from how hard he’s keeping his annoyance within and oh god, he’s beautiful.

He drags his feet to walk away from the cab, eyebrows still furrowed, and you had to begrudgingly stop yourself from checking this stranger out because you do not want embarrassment to lace all the exasperation you’re feeling right now. You feel your cheeks heat up when you realize he stopped to stand beside your slumped form, sulking like you’ve lost all your will to live.

“Jesus, it’s so hot…” you hear him groan as he types away on his phone. You assume he’s complaining to a friend because it’s what you would have done. That is, if you could catch a signal.

You giggle to yourself and he snaps his head to look at you, expression softening.

“Tourist?”

He’s talking to you. What the hell are you supposed to do when a man (who looks like he stepped out of a typical romance drama) strikes a conversation with you? You choose to face him, avoiding eye contact, and nod meekly.

He immediately whines. A behavior such a stark contrast to a man whose figure towers over you, “Can you believe that cab driver tried to charge me 1000 pesos for a 15-minute ride? My friend told me they overcharge tourists like crazy, so I should just act angry, but I guess I’m not scaring them off..?”

You finally make eye contact with him, skimming over his features. He’s handsome, but not in a way that suffocates you. He’s… cute. Makes you feel fuzzy inside with his soft features. Round, wide eyes, nose slightly scrunched, and the way his front teeth sit on his bottom lip makes him look like a bunny who wasn’t given enough carrot treats. What the fuck are you even saying at this point? He’s just some guy. Okay, a gorgeous one, at that.

You clear your throat, “Maybe you should try an Uber?”

“Ubers aren’t available in the Philippines…”

You nod, not knowing what to say. You’ve proven yet again that you are physically incapable of talking to cute guys.

“Shit. Now my phone is at 1%.”

You snort, “I’d offer mine, but this dumb fuck cannot catch a signal.”

He sighs defeatedly, now sitting on his luggage as well, “Aren’t you going to try and get a cab?”

“I was going to, but after seeing you with that cab driver, I might as well just take a flight back home already…”

He chuckles. Even his laugh is pretty.

“Maybe you’re better at haggling than I am?”

He seems to be right, because the first cab driver you hailed instantly agreed to drive you for 300 pesos. You nod at the stranger while loading your luggage in the back, and he smiles at you in return. You’re probably never going to see each other again. So much for a short-lived airport crush.

You fall back onto the expanse of your bed once you’ve checked in, relishing in the comfort after a pain-staking flight. Stretching your back, you’re relieved to find that the hotel wi-fi works like magic, finally satiating your need for chronically online personal time. After a few moments of scrolling through your feed to see what you’ve missed, you grew bored, pressing the call button beside Karina’s contact name. Her face lights up your screen immediately.

“Yah! Why are you on your phone instead of the beach? I just saw you repost a Tiktok 5 minutes ago!”

You roll your eyes, “Can’t a girl replenish her social battery before going out and about all alone?” She simply chuckles, giving you an avenue to start complaining to her about all the mishaps that have happened so far. You drone on and on until you’ve lost track of all the time you spent just grumbling over every inconvenience, and she reassures you that maybe you used up all your bad luck, and from hereon, everything will fall into place smoothly. You aspire to be as optimistic as she is. Soon enough, she yawns, saying that it’s time for her afternoon nap, and you’re left to scurry over to the bathroom to freshen up.

It’s 4PM when you step out of your hotel room, padding over to the lobby to ask for the pathway to the beach, when you catch sight of a familiar tall figure hunched over the receptionist desk. He seems to feel your presence, because he snaps his head towards you.

“Huh? Oh!” 

It’s the cute guy from the airport. You swear you’re going to get a heart attack.

“O-oh? Hey,” you try to muster out. You really, really suck at talking to cute guys.

He smiles, “Didn’t know you booked the same hotel! We could have shared a cab, then.”

“Would be weird to tell a complete stranger which hotel I booked, right?” You didn’t mean for the words to trail off your mouth quite harshly, really, but your realization hits you too late when his face flushes in panic as he responds. “A-ah! Yeah! I suppose it would be really weird. Sorry…”

You glance over at the receptionist desk to see that there was no one manning. Great. Now you can’t weasel your way out of this awkward situation.

“Uh… I was going to ask the receptionist where the pathway leading directly to the beach was, but I guess there’s nobody here?”

He’s shocked. It’s almost animated how his expressions are painted on his face. “I was going to ask them too! I’ve been waiting for about 10 minutes now, but I have no idea where the receptionist has gone, so…” He trails off, and maybe it’s the impatience getting to your head, so you ask,

“You want to just fuck it and find it ourselves?”

He looks at you, and for just a moment, you’re terrified. What if he thinks you’re hitting on him? Wanting to spend time alone with a hot guy? You almost think you’re fucked until he flashes a grin.

“I’m already itching to get my feet in the sand.”

And that’s how you find yourself walking side by side with him. You learn that his name is Soobin, and that he’s from South Korea, working in corporate like you. Soobin tells you about his friend that was supposed to come with him, but he booked his flight incorrectly in an absentminded haze, thus he was traveling solo. You tell him that your friend practically had to bribe you into going on this vacation because of all the stress you have bottled up from your miserable job. He lets out a giggle, saying that he needed to get away from his laptop screen given that even typing was giving him a migraine.

Despite your closed off nature, it was surprisingly easy to fall into a conversation with Soobin. Maybe you enjoyed the conversation a little too much, because it’s only then that you realize you’ve been going around in circles, still not finding the beachside.

“Do you think we’re lost?”

He turns over to you and stops in his tracks, smiling sheepishly. “Maybe?”

And then it hits you. You’re lost. God knows where you are, and you’re stuck navigating your way back with someone you met less than 5 hours ago. Did you really put your guard down for a stranger?

“Shit,” you pull out your phone, only to be reminded that it’s practically useless. It doesn’t help that you’re in a dead zone. You see him fiddling with his phone, seemingly to find a way to map yourselves out of this, but he was met with disappointment upon reading the words “no cellular service”.

You groan, wanting nothing but to go back to your hotel room to curl up in your bed, but Soobin was still adamant on finding the beachside. Unfortunately for you and your aching legs, you had to choose between dragging yourself sluggishly or having a tantrum in the middle of nowhere. The latter was a no-go, obviously, unless you had a death wish?

The fatigue and anxiety were catching up to the both of you as dead silence remained in the air, save from the small huffs you were letting out occasionally. Soobin glances at you from time to time, seemingly to check on your pathetic state. The sun was starting to set, and you’re certain you were going to make it to the headlines as the 25 year-old woman who (a) perished in extreme fatigue and irritation, or; (b) got brutally murdered by a bunny-looking stranger twice her size. 

You don’t notice that you were looking at the ground, questioning every life decision that has led you to this absurdity, when Soobin’s awed gasp snaps you back into reality.

“Heol…”

You look up to see a breathtaking view, all yours to behold. The sun was setting in the horizon, etched in the apricot sky. Palm trees breezed through the path, and the salt in the air barely grazed your tongue. Soobin has his mouth agape, eyes full of wonder. Okay, maybe he’s not a serial killer out to murder you if he brought you to such a beautiful part of the seaside. Unless this is all part of his grand scheme to let your guard down? But he looks clueless as he can be, perhaps you were more likely to be the murderer in this situation.

“Come! There’s no one around!” Soobin hurriedly waddles over to a spot just below the trees, inviting you to join him. Once you’re sat beside him in the sand, he stretches the entirety of his legs, letting out a hum of relief. He has a stupid smile on his face as his eyes glaze to take in the golden hour.

“I’m sorry I got us lost. I’ve never been good at directions,” Soobin smiles apologetically. “But hey, this view is nice. We have this all to ourselves.”

No one was around. Okay. Maybe this is the part where he brutally murd-

“I hope you’re not too tired. I… kinda heard you huffing a lot earlier and I figured you were getting antsy. Also it was probably because you were lost in god knows where with a dude you just met, so that must have been scary for you? I can’t convince you that I’m completely harmless because that would make me more suspicious, right? And oh god why am I rambling?” He’s melting into a puddle of embarrassment. Usually, you liked it when men learned to shut the fuck up, but you tolerated his rambling. He was quite… endearing, actually.

You let out a small chuckle, “Soobin, it’s fine. We’re chill. I was just tired of walking in circles, that’s all.” He sighs in response, fingers tracing shapes in the sand.

“The view is beautiful though. I’m kinda glad we got lost. We can gatekeep this experience,” you add, shooting a reassuring smile. Now you feel bad for ever thinking ill of him, because the way he perks up and grins at you just seals the deal that he was never a threat. Soobin turns away to continue watching the sunset, basking in the way the sun’s rays kiss his skin.

Time flew by too fast, and now you’re left with the problem of how you’re supposed to go back to the hotel, when a light suddenly beams at the two of you.

“Hey! This is private property!” Fuck. No wonder there weren’t any people around. The two of you get escorted out, with the security guard huffing about how “kids these days just fool around everywhere”, to which you and Soobin turn crimson profusely. You had no choice but to push your luck, asking him the way to your hotel no matter how embarrassed the pair of you were.

“Okay… that was humiliating,” you cringe and glance over at Soobin, who was not faring any better than you. His cheeks were still puffed out, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. 

“Kinda feels like we’re trauma bonded now,” he mutters, praying that this time around, you were going the right way. “Trauma bonded over a humiliation ritual…. today felt too long.”

You hum, “Yep. Might have to skip dinner. I just want to sleep and stock up on social battery for the next 6 days.”

His eyes widened, “Wow. We have the exact same hotel and trip duration.” 

You nod, not knowing what to make of this new knowledge, but all the rummaging in your brain was instantly cut off by him.

“Do you, perhaps…” His voice turns small. “Perhaps you’d like to stick together?”

“A whole week together? You might get sick of me.”

He grins, “Well, if by chance I do, it would be totally fine. We’re most likely never going to cross paths with each other again anyway.”

You don’t know what compels you to, but you agree. 

You hope Karina would be proud of you stepping outside of your comfort zone (and trusting that some guy doesn’t offer you as human sacrifice.)

The next few days went by like a dream. 

On the second and third day, Soobin took you ziplining and leaping off waterfalls despite your protests. You remember how your heart skipped a beat at his proud, child-like grin when he got you to admit that facing your fear of heights ended up rather enjoyable. The day after, the pair of you decided to take a break from the adrenaline and wandered off to the cultural spots Cebu had to offer. You didn’t expect him to take such good shots of you, worthy enough to be posted on your wilting Instagram account. Karina had even bombarded you with question marks, asking if you’ve finally made a new friend. Imagine her shock when you sent her a selfie you had taken of the two of you, and she found out your new “friend” looks like he stepped out of a manhwa.

By the end of the fifth day of your escapades with Soobin, you had suggested trying out the beachside bars your Tiktok algorithm was raging about. It seems like Karina had magic senses, because your phone suddenly chirped with a text notification while you added finishing touches to your makeup. 

rina<3: u crack cebu boy yet?

You furrow your eyebrows at this.

: huh

: we’re FRIENDS

rina<3: and he’s ur exact type

: well yes

: but it would be weird to get in a random stranger’s pants

rina<3: dude that’s exactly why

         : u can just leave it behind

         : what happens in cebu stays in cebu type shit

         : esp if hes bad in bed 💀

: you are so…

: what if i catch something from him

rina<3: feelings?

          : oh u meant an std

          : i snooped through his instagram and mans looks bitchless anyway

          : his following list consists of league gameplay accounts and 4 of his friends

: ugh idk man

: i just 

: hes hot but

: i’d rather not put weird thoughts in my head about a dude i’m spending the remaining days with

rina<3: LMAO it’s okay i’m playing

          : just sayin u only live once

          : and i’ve prayed hard for u to finally get laid again

          : especially after ur ugly ass ex

          : and don’t tell me u haven’t snooped through his ig either

: ?

: i have but

: just out of pure curiosity

rina<3: love when u get defensive

          : u in bed alrdy? do u wanna call and catch up

          : im yearning for my best friend

: awww i’m going out

: trying the beachside bars

rina<3: oh? 👀

          : enjoy <3

          : hoping u break ur vow of abstinence

: ????

: love you

: i’ll call u tomorrow evening maybe

Karina sends a heart and a wink in response, making you smile and shake your head

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you adjust a strand of your hair and suddenly become antsy. All those talks about Soobin suddenly made you feel hauntingly self-aware. You hate to admit that you wanted to look pretty to him. Life has a way of making things fall into place so perfectly, because not long after your frustrated fussing, you hear three knocks on your door. Soobin.

You pad over, opening your door to see Soobin standing in true, awkward, painfully endearing Soobin fashion. 

His eyes fall on your face, drifting just a millisecond to your bikini-clad and sheer covered body. You barely miss the way his cheeks burn despite the cold air from your room.

“You look-” he starts, but cuts himself off. Alarms blare in your head. Look horrible? A mess? You look like you tried to get all pretty for me but absolutely failed?

“Look what?” you squeak out, voice small. He scratches his neck, as if debating what words to say. You’re painfully fretting over every possible response until he eventually mumbles something after a few beats.

“You look beautiful.”

He says it so sincerely it makes your head spin. But alas, Soobin is Soobin…

“Not in a creepy way! The color of your outfit just fits you really well. And the way you did your hair and makeup is pretty cool. And-”

You shush him, trying to calm your heart that is about to beat out of your chest, “It’s fine, Soobin. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Awkward silence then envelopes you in the warmly lit hotel hallway, both of you not daring to meet each other’s eyes.

You were the one to break the stillness, “Let’s go?”, to which he hums in response. He looked like he had much more to say, but you don’t dare to pry him on his thoughts in fear of further straining the situation.

One thing you liked about spending time with Soobin is how the two of you go well together. Platonically, you swear. It isn’t even five minutes deep into the walk together when you’re back to telling each other mundane stories about your lives back home. Soobin whines about how he misses his dog, Tori, to which you reply “so she’s far better company than me?”, causing him to ramble in panic. You, in turn, tell him about how you don’t want to come back to office paperwork when you’ve been having the time of your life getting your feet in the sand all day. 

“I wish we could stay here forever,” he sighs, seemingly in a haze as the night breeze grazes his hair. “It’s been really fun just doing anything and everything with you.”

You take the chance to finally, actually look at Soobin. He towers over you, looking you straight in the eye like he doesn’t know your heart is about to beat out of your chest every time he does so. His hair is messy from the wind, the outline of his face perfectly chiseled by the moonlight gracing his skin.

In that moment, you know something starts shifting between your feelings and your ever-so rational mind. You can’t help it. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung up the moon. Not when his beauty is one you would only find once in a lifetime.

You’re done for.

Despite this, you push your thoughts down your throat, managing to whisper, “I’ll really miss you when we go our separate ways, you know?”

He chuckles, “Because I’m the only male friend you have that actually takes good photos of you?”

“Your words, not mine.”

He beams teasingly before adding, “I’ll miss you too. A lot.”

Suddenly confronted with the vulnerability of your words, you tear your eyes away from him and start kicking sand beneath your feet, “I don’t know why I got sappy, sorry. I still have 2 days with you.”

“It’s cute,” Soobin reassures you. As a friend would, right? You don’t want to overthink it. “I never would have thought we’d warm up to each other so fast, but maybe I was meant to meet you on this trip.”

“Just so you have someone to buy you vinegar for your jellyfish stings?”

“That, and we make quite a good pair for people who only met at the start of this week.” Your heart feels like it’s being tugged from all sides, painfully reminded of the fact that you’ve grown attached to him in such a short period of time.

Right. You really shouldn’t get too attached to someone who will be an ocean away by the following week.

Your forlorn musings are interrupted by the chants of people that cut through the bubble you and Soobin have placed yourselves in. He flashes an ever so sweet smile at you, taking your hand in his.

“You ready to get absolutely shitfaced?”

The world is spinning before your eyes.

“Sooooobieeee” you slur out, arm snugly wrapped around his. “Let’s drink more!”

You don’t know how much alcohol is flowing through your bloodstream, but it was enough for you to cling into Soobin like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Literally. If it weren’t for him, you would have fallen face flat into the ground.

He squeaks, “No more! You’re red all over!”

“And you’re not!” you pout, “It’s like I’m the only one having fun!”

You would have thought he was starting to get sick of you if it weren’t for his grip tightening before he says, “I’m having fun. But-”

“Soobin. Soobin. I’m going to throw up.”

He mutters a profanity in his native language, dragging you up so gently and guiding you somewhere your inebriated mind couldn’t fathom. It’s only when you breathe in the stench that you piece out that he had taken you to the bathroom (more specifically, the line of people leading to it.)

“Don’t barf on me, please,” Soobin practically begs, rubbing circles on your back as you lean further into his grip, dopey smile plastered on your face as you admire him from the angle below.

“You’re really, really, reallyyyy cute, Soobie,” you squeeze the bicep you’re clinging onto, making the man shriek in surprise. “How are you even real?”

He chooses to look away from your eyes that keep raking all over him, cheeks now a carmine red. 

“I told you earlier that you didn’t look too bad yourself, but I wanted to tell you that you looked absolutely fucking beautiful. Far prettier than me. Even though I spent so long trying to look cute for you,” you stumble over your words as he keeps his hold on your waist. You don’t even notice that it was your turn to enter the bathroom when he sighs and escorts you inside, oblivious to the stares you got from stepping inside together. 

He positions you so that you’re hunched over the toilet, his annoyingly long legs folded to keep you at eye level while he bunches your hair up. As your drunkenness wills, you expel the intoxication out of your system as Soobin wipes the sweat off your face and neck. When all is done, you look at him and weakly ask for toilet paper to wipe your face with, to which he takes it upon himself to do it for you, gingerly padding over your mouth and tear-stained cheeks.

“All okay?” Soobin asks as he throws the toilet paper away and tidies up the bathroom the best he could.

“Mhm,” you purr, latching onto his arm as he opens the door, receiving pointed stares from the people witnessing you step outside together. You were all oblivious to it, wanting nothing but to curl up into the heat his body tenders. He’s silent as you stumble over your feet, and yet he traces his arm back around your waist once more.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you back.”

“But you haven’t even drank that much yet!”

“I’m not a heavy drinker.”

You sulk as he maneuvers you all the way back to your hotel room. 

When he sets you down on the bed, your frown only gets deeper. He’s immediately rummaging through your bathroom, hurriedly asking where your cleansing wipes are before you succumb to slumber, and returns to your side albeit not telling him where it was. It’s funny, really, the way you could see yourselves falling into this routine in the future. A future that seems so out of reach, if only you wouldn’t be miles away from each other when all this is done.

“Stay still,” Soobin whispers, as if terrified of breaking through the air of tenderness sifting through your hotel room. He holds your face so delicately as he drags the makeup off of your lethargic state. He’s merely inches away and yet he seems so far from your reach. 

“Soobin,” you let out, almost a pained, yearning whimper. You feel his fingers tremble against your cheek before he resumes his ministrations with a simple hum. “You’re even prettier up close.”

Maybe it’s the liquid courage. Maybe it’s all those talks with Karina. Maybe it’s the rare occurrence of you acting according to impulse– but you close the distance between the two of you, letting out a contented sigh as you feel his plump lips against yours. 

The problem is Soobin stays unmoving.

You pull away, shame overcoming the entirety of your system.

“Soobin, I’m sor-”

“Good night,” he replies curtly.

All inebriety has fallen out of the window as you lay down, pulling the sheets all over yourself. You pray this was all just a dream. That you had actually dozed off as he was busying himself on tidying the makeup off your face. 

The last thing you hear before sleep overcomes you are his faint footsteps and the clicking of your door.

page.soobin: let me know if you’re awake

                     : i bought painkillers for you

                     : i’ll come by then

It’s half past 3 in the afternoon when you awake from your slumber, groaning as you curse yourself for drinking like a maniac the previous night. You simply blink at Soobin’s texts, about to reply when you recall all the humiliation you put yourself in. 

Fuck. Fuck. You’re fucked.

page.soobin: you awake?

                     : you have read receipts on by the way

Great.

: i just woke up

: it’s fine i can manage

: you don’t have to come over

page.soobin: stop

                     : at least let me take care of you

: i’m okay, soobin

: i swear

page.soobin: i’m still dropping by

                     : elevator rn

It all happens so quickly. One second you’re grimacing at the thought of seeing him in your disheveled and oh-so dreadfully humiliated state, and the next you’re opening the door for him. He’s dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts, hair disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it the whole while. 

“You should have gone out instead of worrying about my hungover,” you grumble under your breath, eyes not daring to land on him.

“Go out? Without you?” He says it like nothing significant happened between the two of you just hours ago.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that…”

Soobin puffs out a breath he’s been keeping for God knows how long. 

“Listen-”

“We don’t have to talk about it, Soobin. I’m really sorry. We should just forget that ever happened and just go our separate ways for the rest of our days here.”

Your mind is in shambles as he stares blankly, debating what to say next.

“Please look at me.”

You can’t deny his request when his voice sounds like it’s about to break. When your eyes meet for the first time since last night, everything just comes crashing out on you. He’s staring so intently, you fear you’ll break upon his gaze.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That you find me beautiful,” he pauses before adding, “That you tried to look pretty for me.”

You grimace at his prodding. “Why would I not mean it?”

“You were drunk.”

“Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I’m lying.”

Just like that, another awkward silence falls upon you. You could only hear his shallow breaths, like he was holding himself back. You pray he doesn’t hear the buzzing in your brain.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he professes matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t kiss me back.”

“I didn’t want our first kiss to be of us being drunk.”

You’re dumbfounded as you took in his feverish appearance. 

“So, if you’ll let me,” he murmurs, “I’d like to have a do-over.”

This time, it wasn’t you who closed the distance between your lips. In a matter of seconds, all of you is filled with him. Soobin. Soobin, who didn’t want to make a move in fear of you not reciprocating. Soobin, who was patient enough to care for you in the most minuscule of ways. Soobin, who you have at the palm of your hand, giving you himself wholeheartedly. Soobin, who has yearned for you all this time.

His soft lips glide against yours so smoothly, his hands eventually slotting around the curve of your waist to pull you in closer. Kissing him felt like coming home. Pressed up against him is where you wanted to be forever.

Soobin pushes you to lay on the bed, with him following suit. He’s careful not to put his whole weight on you, but even so, you feel suffocated by the affection bubbling within you. He’s all yours, albeit just for this moment. 

“Soob,” you manage to mewl out against the kisses he is peppering all over your collarbone.

“You alright, baby?” The endearment is enough to make your legs buckle around his waist, wanting to pull him in closer.

“More than alright,” you gasp as he grazes his teeth against your neck, leaving love bites. “I just can’t believe you’re mine today.”

He furrows his eyebrows, halting his actions, “Today?”

“Today,” you frown. “Last full day together and we’re back to our old lives.”

His eyes soften immediately, brushing the strands of hair from your face before he speaks, “It doesn’t have to be just today. I’m yours evermore.”

“But-”

“I’ll visit you every now and then. You can show me around your hometown, and I’ll fly you out to mine,” he traces his finger against your cheek, “And then you’ll meet Tori. I swear you’ll fall in love with her. And we’ll have all the time to ourselves.”

You snicker, “Do you say that to the girls back home too?”

Soobin chuckles in response, a low humming in his chest, “Home is with you.” 

You feel like you’re going insane as you pull him in once more, so overwhelmed with the infatuation. Your kisses escalate from shy smacks to a full-blown makeout session, eliciting soft groans from the man looming above you. The way you touch each other feels as though you’re trying to memorize the feel of your bodies, your hands making their way to the skin of his chest under his shirt.

“Take it off if you want to, baby,” he prompts, half-teasing and half-desperate. You catch your breath before tugging on it, motioning for him to help you in pulling it over his head. Every part of him looks like it was sculpted by the gods so intricately. You really can’t believe he’s yours for the taking. 

“You look like you’re about to devour me,” he teases.

“I am about to devour you.”

He moans at your words, taking you aback.

“You’re into that?”

“Only if it’s you.”

You don’t know how much time passes– all you know is that your clothes ended up on the floor and he’s inching his long fingers into your heat. His eyebrows are knit as he presses each knuckle to your walls, while you are left to whimper helplessly. His pace picks up, making your face scrunch up from the pleasure.

“Soo- baby, no,” you have a death grip on his arm, trying to stop him.

“Hurts?”

“No, good,” you swivel your hips, “Just want you inside.”

He gulps, a rush of heat going straight to his groin. “Condom?”

It’s irresponsible, really. Despite having previous experiences, you’ve never done it without. You don’t know why, but your brain compels you to heave in response, “No. I want all of you.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Death by dick seems pleasurable.”

Soobin almost can’t believe the humor laced in your words when he’s about to fuck the living daylights out of you, “Don’t die on me.”

He pulls himself out of his boxers, stroking himself. He’s achingly hard, and it took everything in you not to shoot up and beg him to let you have a taste.

“Soobin, you’re huge.”

“More surface area for me to love you with.”

You were about to shoot him a cringed out look when he guided his tip to your entrance. Both your faces scrunch up in pleasure despite the lack of penetration.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Baby,” your chest heaves, “I need you. I thought I made that clear.”

He beams, a stark contrast to him starting to inch through your insides. He’s biting his lip as he holds your hips down, “You’re- fuck.”

Your brain has officially melted into a puddle when he manages to fit everything inside. He gives you time to adjust to the intrusion, pecking your face all over. You swear this is the closest thing to paradise.

And he’s not far off. You notice how his knuckles are turning white from gripping your hips so tautly, trying to ground himself.

When you give him the signal to move, Soobin swears he could almost finish from the first thrust. He’s almost whining from the all-consuming pleasure, thrusts going from the softest brushes against your walls to calculated presses against the deepest parts of you. Soon enough, you’re babbling against his collarbone, leaving your own marks on his ivory skin. He’s yours, yours, yours.

“Fuck,” Soobin sobs, “I just want to stay like this forever.”

You can’t even bring yourself to respond verbally, resorting to clenching around him. His sobs grow even louder, hips unrelenting against yours. You wish you had met back in your hometown. You wish he was easily within your reach. You wish you had the liberty of being tangled up with him for the rest of your life. You don’t want to let him go. What can you do when the only person you’ve allowed yourself to feel everything and anything for lives oceans away?

“Baby,” your voice is weak as you scratch up his back, tugging on his nape. “About to cum.”

This only eggs him on faster, now slamming his hips roughly as he chases your orgasm. “F-fuck. I-inside?”

You hum, locking your legs tighter around his waist, “Nowhere else. N-need to have a piece of you with- in me before we fly back tomorrow.”

Your words seem to do wonders for Soobin. Your orgasm hits you at the same time he spills his warmth deep inside. You would’ve teased him about how he came so much if you weren’t twitching from the aftershocks of your release. He stays inside as the two of you unwind, him drawing circles against your hips, trying to soothe it from his death grip from earlier.

“You alright?” he mumbles against your neck, lapping at it gently. You hum in response, running your fingers through his tousled hair. You lay in silence, relishing in each other’s body warmth under the covers. He kisses the top of your head from time to time, breathing in your scent.

“I smell like vomit,” you grimace.

“You smell like sex.”

You roll your eyes, “That too. But I’m too lazy to take a shower. Just want to be with you.”

He taps your thigh, smirking, “Just say you want to take a shower with me.”

And that, you did. He takes his time with you, locking you in his embrace as the water simmers through your bare bodies. Mundane as it is, you bask in the feel of his body pressed against yours. You’d do anything to live in this moment eternally.

When it was time to fly back home, it took everything in you not to lock yourself inside Soobin’s luggage. You had walked hand in hand, waiting for each other’s flights back home. He kept kissing your knuckles, hushing sweet nothings. When your flight had been announced for boarding, you had cried in his arms, desperately wanting to take him with you. Soobin, ever the mediator, kisses the top of your head, promising to be by your side in a few months’ time. You don’t dare to look back when you enter the gate. You’re scared you’ll fall into another fit of sobs.

It’s been 5 months since, and you’re lounging on your couch, waiting for Soobin’s daily good morning message. He had been consistent in giving you even the smallest details of his life, the highlight of each of your days being the video call you hop on for your debriefings until you fall asleep. 

soob ♡: good morning

            : the heat is killing me

Your face lights up as his name pops up on your screen.

: good morning <3

: it’s 17° in seoul though?

soob ♡: wanna see something funny?

: baby it’s too early for your league of legends gameplay

soob ♡: heyyy :( 

            : but please say yes

            : this isn’t related to league i swear

: ?

: okay yes i wanna know something funny

soob ♡: okay maybe this is borderline creepy instead of funny

            : [Sent a photo attachment.]

You shriek as you open the photo, feet immediately waddling over to your front door.

There he is.

Soobin has a large grin on his face when his eyes land on you, a bouquet of lilies in his hand extended towards you. Even so, your favorite flowers dull in comparison to your favorite boy. The bouquet is all forgotten on the ground when you run to his embrace, one that you’ve been longing for. You don’t care if the neighbors could hear your squealing throughout the apartment hallway. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here, and he’s finally all yours.

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

CC!BEOMGYU isn't a man of many words, no different in bed — except for when he's about to cum. beomgyu is always careful with labels, always close enough to stake claim but never lingering too long to make it feel real. except the way his breath ghosts along the shell of your ear makes cling onto the idea of something beyond just casual sex — if only for the moment.

"shit— you're perfect like this," he grunts, fingers squeezing your hip as he forces his cock deep inside your cunt, "my pretty doll, aren't you?"

mine.

that one word is treading dangerous waters — you both know that, even when none of you address it. but it's like he can't help himself, like the sight of you laid out beneath him, face warm with desire, unleashes something he fights so hard to keep buried — and beomgyu lets himself slip up over and over.

CC!BEOMGYU never cums inside, it's the one line he won't ever allow himself to cross, no matter the circumstances. always pulling out with a hiss just as you get your hopes up, he'll jerk himself off quickly as his hand smooths over the skin of your thigh. "hold still for me, dollface," he murmurs, head tipping back when he finishes over your thighs with a groan.

CC!BEOMGYU has restless fingers, often fiddling with his rings or tapping them against whatever surface before him. it's no surprise that one of his favourite things is stuffing your cunt full of them, only to have you cum all over his hand. cc!beomgyu can spend hours between your legs, cheek pressed against your thigh where his lips brush over your skin — dark gaze fixed on the way two of his fingers slide in and out of your dripping pussy.

CC!BEOMGYU loves the taste of you, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you just so he can bring his slick fingers to his lips and savor what you give him. "so addictive..." he murmurs as his fingers draw lazy circles on your overstimulated clit. "like a drug," he sighs when he licks himself clean again.

CC!BEOMGYU can go round for round, especially when he's had a line before. missionary is his favourite, purely because of the satisfaction he gets from seeing the way your face twists in pleasure, knowing that it was him and no one else that brought you this. though doggy is a close second. where he can lean his chest against your naked back, feel your feverish skin against his when he takes you from behind.

"you're warm," the admission slips out mindlessly, his words almost slurred as his hands roam your chest, fingers tweaking at your nipples before pulling on them roughly. "feel so nice against me." but he's not talking about the way your cunt clenches around his cock, no, it's in the way your breath stutters in your chest, the way he can feel every tremor and twitch of your body as he molds himself against you.

CC!BEOMGYU loves your throat, loves the way it bobs when you swallow, the way it contracts when you take him into your mouth. most of all he loves the way his hands look when wrapped around your jugular, obsessed with the way you give up such a vulnerable part of yourself without second thought.

cc!beomgyu is rough but always so so careful with your throat, his touch is almost frustratingly light, sometimes you wish he'd just squeeze. he never does. he never would. to him, your body is a temple, and the curve of your neck is where he prays. he loves it when the cold metal of his rings startle you at the first touch, the way your heart races under his lips when he drags them along the fragile skin.

but you liked him, just a little. you liked the way he always saved you a seat. liked the way he looked at you when you talked, like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. and maybe, once or twice, you thought about kissing him. maybe, if he kissed you first, you wouldn’t have stopped him. and soobin, well, he’s just your friend. even if you’re always in his lap. even if you always call him baby when you’re drunk. even if sometimes he looks at you like he wants to ruin you.

but then you hooked up with that girl from your lit class and remembered: oh. right. you like girls. you’ve always known you were mostly into girls. since before you even had a word for it. barbie made out with other barbie. you had crushes on your best friends. and when you finally kissed a girl for the first time, it felt like everything made sense. you’re bi, technically. but girls were always easier for you. guys were… well, guys. loud, messy, handsy. they talked over you. and every time you tried to “give it a shot” with one, it ended in disappointment. sometimes disgust. you got tired of being disappointed, so you stopped trying.

but then there was soobin.

your friendship with him is… complicated. you watch movies together all the time. mostly 1980's horror films. bad ones, always. you eat from the same bowl of popcorn and scream at the same jump scares. he lets you paint his nails while you ramble about some bullshit while you’re high, and he acts like it doesn’t hurt when you say things like i think i’m into her.

but also, you caught him staring once. not in a gross way. more like… sad? like he wanted to ask something, but didn’t know if he should. well, you didn’t ask either. you just laid your head on his shoulder and said, “you’re my favorite boy, you know that?” and he said, “i better be."

you’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count. not on purpose, just sleepovers, gym selfies, pool days. but still, his stupid abs live rent-free in your head. and maybe you’ve thought about kissing him. maybe you wonder what it’d feel like to let him touch you, like, really touch you. maybe your brain goes quiet when he calls you pretty. maybe you’re scared of what that means.

maybe you don’t know if you’re confused about him, or just confused about yourself.

and soobin? oh, soobin wants you in ways he can’t say out loud.

it is not sweet, nor soft. no, he wants you in the most carnal way a person can want someone. wants your thighs around his face. wants to hear you whimper. wants to fuck the brat right out of you. and it’s hell, you know, being your friend.

because you’re always touching him. always looking at him like he’s just soobin, your favorite pillow, your emotional support boy. you straddle his lap like it means nothing. call him baby when you’re tipsy. you whisper in his ear at parties like you’re telling him secrets, when really it’s just to feel your lips on his neck. he knows what you’re doing. or maybe you don’t. maybe you’re just like this. maybe you really don’t know what you do to him.

but he does, because he thinks about it way too often. you on your knees. you moaning his name. your lipgloss smeared across his skin. and he hates himself for it, for the way his cock aches just from being around you. for the way he jerks off after you leave his apartment, like some sad, pathetic, friendzoned loser. he wants to blame you, but he can’t. it’s not your fault you’re like this.

and tonight’s the worst. today is taehyun’s birthday party. everyone’s sweating through their clothes and the floor’s sticky and someone’s already puked in the sink. but you look unreal, you always do. little black skirt, bare thighs, something sparkly on your chest. and of course soobin wants to bite you.

you’re drunk, but not too drunk. just buzzed enough to be mean about it. to smile at him with that lipglossed mouth and say shit like: “you know you’re stupid hot, right?”

he freezes. “what?”

you grin. lean in, real close. “you heard me.”

he tries not to react. tries to keep his eyes on your face and not the way your fingers trail down his arm. but his skin’s buzzing, and you’re everywhere. your perfume, your voice, your thighs on his. you’re pressing into him like you want him to do something. and fuck, he almost does. but you’re gone again, like you always are. off to refill your drink, or to dance, or to do whatever the fuck you do when you’re tipsy and glowing and unstoppable.

he finds you later in the kitchen. kissing some girl against the counter, all teeth and tongue and fingers knotted in hair. and he shouldn’t be surprised. he’s not surprised. he’s just, well. soobin is hard.

and ashamed. and dizzy with it. so he turns away. drinks whatever’s in his cup. vodka? piss? who cares.

an hour later, you sit on his lap like nothing happened. like you didn’t just let some other girl bite your neck while he watched. like he isn’t the one unraveling.

“hey,” you whisper. one arm around his shoulders, nails grazing the back of his neck. “you okay?” he doesn’t answer. you tilt your head. “what’re you thinking about?”

he says it before he can stop himself. “don’t know what to say to you,” he breathes. “i feel… you’re always on my mind.”

you freeze for a second. then your face softens. not in the way he wants. “soobin…” you laugh, too gentle. “i’m really not that into guys.”

the words hit like a blade to the gut. or maybe like a jump scare in one of those shitty 1980s horror films you always make him watch. the kind where someone’s about to get gutted, but the music’s still cheerful. like the world doesn’t know something awful is happening.

and he’s sitting there, hard as a rock, hands on your waist, and he can’t even move. just smiles, swallows it down. lets the blood drain from his chest to somewhere lower. because fuck it, right? because he wants you so bad he’ll take anything. even this.

but after that night, things started to change inside you.

you didn’t want to admit it, not even to yourself. you played it off, laughed it off, because that’s what you always do when things get a little too real. but something shifted, something you didn’t know how to name. but you weren’t stupid. you knew what you were doing that night. you were drunk, yes. but not that drunk. just loose enough to let your hands wander. just tipsy enough to call soobin pretty and pretend it didn’t mean anything. just bold enough to climb into his lap and act like you belonged there.

and god, the way he looked at you. he always looked at you soft. like you were something delicate, something sacred. but that night? something in his eyes was darker. heavier. something that made your stomach flip and your thighs press together just a little.

you liked it, you fucking liked it. and then you said it — i’m really not that into guys — and watched it hit him like a punch to the face. you weren’t lying. well, not entirely. you are bi. you always have been. but it’s been a long time since a man made you feel anything. it’s been years since one touched you and your body responded like this. and it’s not like you didn’t try, you did. dates, hookups, situationships. they all fizzled out into nothing. no spark. no heat. just another guy thinking he deserved something just for showing up.

but soobin isn’t like them. soobin is sweet. soobin holds your hand when you’re hungover and makes playlists for your moods and never pushes, never assumes, never demands. he’s soft-spoken, polite, too damn good for his own sanity. and maybe that’s why you liked teasing him so much. maybe that’s why you started testing your limits.

you knew he liked you. he never said it, but it clung to everything he did. the way he lingered when you touched him. the way he looked away when you changed clothes in front of him, but not too fast. the way he let you flirt and flirt and flirt, and never told you to stop.

and well, you’re a little fucked up, you know that. you like playing with fire just to see how long it takes to burn. and with soobin? soobin had this face, all soft lashes and pink lips and that stupid shy smile, and yet you knew he wasn’t innocent, no, not really. you’d catch him looking sometimes, like really looking. not just at your face, but at your thighs. your chest. your mouth. the hunger was there, hiding behind the sweet boy act.

and it did something to you, something ugly. something hot.

so you started to lean in closer when you talked to him. started calling him baby more often, just to see how his ears turned red. you wore shorts that barely covered anything when he came over. you let your fingers linger a little too long on his hand when you passed him things. and when you caught him staring, you smiled.

but you told yourself it was just fun. you told yourself you were figuring things out, seeing if your body could still want a guy. if your brain could still go there. and if it was anyone else, you probably would’ve pulled away already. but it’s soobin, and you trust him. and that’s what makes it worse. because now every time you’re alone together, you can feel it crackling between you. every laugh, every brush of skin, every too-long stare— it all builds and builds until you feel like your bones might snap from the pressure of not doing anything.

you wake up thinking about his mouth. you fall asleep wondering how he tastes. you touch yourself and pretend it’s still just curiosity. you don’t know what this makes you. don’t know if you’re into him, or just into how he makes you feel. don’t know if you want him because it’s him… or because your body is begging for something and he’s the first person to really look at you like he’s starving.

and maybe that’s the scariest part. not wanting him, but not knowing why you want him.

so you text him two nights later.

[you]: hey, movie night?

[you]: u owe me horror and gore

he answers in under five minutes.

[soobin]: omw

you stare at the message longer than necessary, because you don’t know what you’re doing. but also— you know exactly what you’re doing.

you pick the movie carefully, not something classy. the slumber party massacre. a cult slasher soaked in tits and blood and bad acting. the kind of movie that makes you feel sticky just watching it. the kind of movie you’d make fun of together. the kind of movie where sexual tension is part of the plot, of course

you throw on a hoodie and tiny shorts. not for him, not really. you just want to be comfortable. or you just want to see what happens.

and when soobin shows up, he looks like he always does. hoodie, sweats, his hair slightly messed up from the wind. but his eyes flick to your legs when you open the door. just for a second. and that’s all it takes. that second burns straight through you.

“hey,” he says, voice a little too low.

“you brought snacks?” you ask, already turning your back to him, pretending your skin isn’t hot.

“yeah,” he says, and when you glance back, he’s still standing there, holding the chips awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“you ever seen the slumber party massacre?” you ask, flopping onto your bed. 

soobin blinks. “uh, yeah. tits and blood, right?”

you grin. “exactly.”

you settle on your bed with the laptop open, lights off except for the screen’s dim glow. he kicks off his shoes and joins you, back against the pillows, a little too far from you. he swears his heart skips. or maybe it’s his dick. hard to tell.

you don’t say anything, you just press play. and the movie starts. basically: girls scream, clothes come off, fake blood splashes across the screen. it’s stupid. you’ve seen it before. but you don’t care. because all you can feel is the space between your bodies.

you stretch your legs out and let one brush against his thigh. you pretend it’s accidental. it’s not. he stiffens a little, but doesn’t pull away. fifteen minutes in, you shift closer. your bare thigh fully pressed to his now. he still doesn’t move, but his breathing changes, though. a little shallower. you don’t look at him, not yet. you lean your head back, neck exposed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

you’re not watching the movie anymore. you’re watching him watch the movie. he’s tense and quiet, too quiet. and then one of the girls on screen moans — loud and ridiculous and obviously fake — and you can practically feel soobin’s whole body flinch beside you.

you turn to him, finally, and your voice comes out low. teasing. “you okay?”

he nods, too quickly. “mhm.”

you smile and lean in a little closer. “you’re so jumpy. it’s just a dumb movie.”

he swallows hard. “yeah, i know.”

and then silence again. well, except it’s not silence. it’s the sound of his breath catching every time you shift. the rustle of sheets when your leg slides higher against his. the creak of the bed when you lean into his side and pretend not to notice how he holds himself like he’s about to explode. you rest your chin on his shoulder. your lips brush his neck. again— just pretend.

your eyes are half-lidded as you stare at the screen, though you’ve long since stopped registering anything happening in the movie. he’s so still beside you it’s almost funny, like he thinks if he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe too loudly, the tension will somehow break on its own. but you feel him. the way his thigh tenses beneath yours. the way his hands are clenched, fingers digging into his own leg. the way he keeps his eyes on the screen like he’s being tested. like this is some exam he has to pass.

“you still think this movie’s just tits and blood?” you ask voice low, teasing. your lips graze the curve of his neck just slightly as you speak, enough to make him flinch.

he lets out a sound, half a laugh, half a breath he’d been holding. “that’s literally all it is,” he says, but his voice is tight, a little hoarse, like it’s caught on something he’s not saying. “plot? never heard of her.”

you grin, slow and lazy. “right. because you only watch movies for the plot.”

“i do, actually.” he turns his head a little, just enough to glance at you, and you catch the flicker of something in his eyes, maybe amusement, restraint, a quiet kind of want that makes your stomach flip. “that’s why i’m here. for the deep narrative of slumber party massacre.”

you laugh, you can’t help it. “mm, yeah. so insightful.”

“exactly,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping (not very subtly) to your mouth. “truly… cinematic.”

there’s a beat of silence where neither of you speaks, where the only sound is the girl on screen screaming as a power drill tears through a door. you shift closer again, just barely, and his breath catches. you can feel the way the air between you is thick. the push and pull of something neither of you wants to name.

you smile, almost wicked, and lean into him fully now, your weight settling half across his chest, your hand resting on his stomach, too casual to be casual at all. you can feel the tension in him, the way his body is coiled tight, like he’s holding himself back from something. “hey..” you whisper, voice syrupy and low. “you uncomfortable?”

he swallows hard. “no,” he says, way too fast. “why would i be?”

you let your fingers drag slowly, lazily over the hem of his hoodie. “dunno. you just seem kinda… stiff.”

you know you’re being cruel. you know exactly what you’re doing, and part of you hates yourself for it. and the other part (the louder one) is trying to make sense of the chaos inside you, the confusion, the heat, the sudden ache that’s been gnawing at you ever since that night at the party. you tell yourself this is about clarity, you just want to know.

he exhales sharply, like he’s trying to keep himself from combusting. “you’re really playing with fire right now,” he mutters, half under his breath.

you tilt your head again, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “me? i would never.”

he turns to you then and suddenly he’s close, so close that his nose almost brushes yours, and all the tension from before condenses into a single, dangerous moment. “are you really not that into guys?” he asks, low and careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but can’t quite pull it off. “or are you just… not into me?”

the words hit harder than you expect. you blink, thrown for a second. you were playing a game, but suddenly you’re not sure what the rules are anymore. and he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. he’s not teasing now, he’s just waiting. you open your mouth, then close it again. because what the hell are you supposed to say? you could lie. you could laugh it off. you could flirt your way out of it like you always do. but you don’t. because suddenly you feel a little sick, like something’s lodged in your chest.

“i…” you start, but your voice cracks, and you have to look away. you pull back just slightly, your hand slipping off his stomach, and the loss of contact makes you feel cold. “i don’t know.”

and that’s the truth, and it’s the worst answer you could give. but soobin doesn’t respond right away. he just watches you for a moment, eyes sharp, mouth tight. “you know,” he says finally, voice low and calm in that dangerous way, “i can’t keep pretending this is nothing. that you don’t know what you’re doing.”

your breath hitches. “i didn’t mean to—”

“yes, you did,” he cuts in, not harsh, but not gentle either. “you did mean to. you do it all the time.”

you want to argue, but you can’t. because he’s right. “i don’t know what i want,” you admit, your voice small now. “it’s not about you. it’s not— it’s not because i don’t think about you. i do. i think about you more than i should.”

he exhales slowly. “then stop acting like it’s a joke.”

you look up at him, and suddenly he’s too close again, and the space between your bodies feels like it might collapse. “i’m just... scared,” you whisper, and it’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night.

his expression softens, not completely, not enough to erase the frustration and the want, but enough to remind you who he is. that it’s soobin. that he’s not going to take advantage. that he just wants you to be sure. “then say that,” he says gently. “don’t play with me.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just sit there with your hands in your lap like some kind of penitent virgin, like you weren’t half on top of him five seconds ago whispering in his ear like a tease. it’s funny, in a pathetic kind of way. you don’t even realize how obvious it is, how you’re still pressed up against him, still breathing like you ran a mile, still watching his mouth like it might do something terrible. and soobin? soobin’s done pretending he doesn’t notice.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, voice calm in a way that’s somehow more dangerous than yelling.

you blink. “um—”

he leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but close enough to make you feel it. “you think you can keep playing these games with me and i’m just gonna sit here and take it.”

your stomach flips. “i wasn’t—”

“you weren’t?” he cuts in, tone sharp now. “what was that then? just casual flirting with your friend since you are 'not that into guys’? calling me baby and crawling into my lap and rubbing up against me during a fucking slasher movie? just normal behavior?”

you open your mouth. close it again. because yeah. yeah, okay. you have no argument. he laughs, humorless. “you want to know what i think?”

you don’t, you really don’t, but you nod anyway. he shifts his body, finally, his legs opening just slightly, taking up more space, spine straighter now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally tired of pretending he’s not starving. he doesn’t touch you, not yet, but every inch of his posture says he could. would, if you let him.

“i think you like pretending you’re in control,” he says. “i think you like pushing me just far enough to feel powerful. but you never let it go further, because then it’s real. and if it’s real, you can’t hide behind your sexuality crisis or your drunk-girl flirty bullshit.”

you suck in a sharp breath. “wow.”

“yeah,” he says. “wow.”

there’s a long pause. you don’t move, but your skin’s buzzing, your thighs pressed together like that’ll help. it won’t. your whole body’s betraying you. and the worst part is that he knows. because he continues: “but here’s the thing,” he continues, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “you’re not in control. not anymore.”

“oh?” you shoot back, voice a little thinner than you want. “and you are?”

he tilts his head, eyes dark now, smile lazy. “wanna find out?”

you hate him. you hate that your legs feel weak and your face is hot and your stomach is doing flips like you’re seventeen and he’s the first boy who ever looked at you like he meant it. you swallow hard. “you think i’m scared of you?”

“i know you’re scared of how bad you want me,” he says, and it’s not cocky. it’s not a guess. it’s a goddamn fact.

and you hate that he’s right. so you laugh, mostly to cover the way your heart is slamming in your chest. “you’re full of yourself.”

“maybe,” he shrugs. “but you’re still sitting in my lap like, so.”

you blink. your brain short-circuits a little. “jesus christ.”

“say the word,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make your spine tingle. “say it and i’ll stop. we can finish the movie, you can pretend you’re totally unbothered, and i’ll go home like nothing happened.”

you look at him, and he’s still soobin. your sweet, smart, quietly hot friend who lets you paint his nails and listens to your drunk girl rants and always brings the right snacks. except now his eyes are blown wide, his lips are parted, and he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. you’re not used to this version of him, but god, it’s doing something to you.

“i’m not saying stop,” you whisper, and it sounds like a confession.

he grins, slow and dangerous. “didn’t think so.”

you don’t have time to think before he moves. he’s grabbing your waist and pulling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. just grabs you, shifts you over until you’re straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, face inches from his. like it’s easy, like he’s done it before.

your breath catches in your throat. your hands find his shoulders out of instinct, grounding yourself, but your head is spinning, because he’s so close. his hoodie smells like laundry detergent and something distinctly him, and you’re hyper-aware of how warm his hands feel on your hips, how his thumbs drag slowly against the waistband of your shorts like he’s barely restraining himself.

“you okay?” he asks, but there’s no softness in his voice this time. just control. “still playing?”

you blink at him, wide-eyed. “i’m not—”

“don’t lie,” he cuts in, eyes dark and steady on yours. “not now.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out. you can feel the tension in your own body of the pull, the ache, the raw want that’s been building for weeks, maybe months, maybe longer than you care to admit. and now it’s all boiling under your skin. he leans back slightly against the pillows, relaxed now, one hand still heavy on your hip. his other arm stretches behind his head, the picture of composure, like he’s not losing his mind with you sitting like this on top of him.

“so,” he says, almost lazily, like this is just another dumb conversation between friends. “what do you like?”

you blink. “what?”

“sexually,” he clarifies, casual as anything, like he’s asking what your favorite color is. “what do you like? do you even know?” you swallow hard and he tilts his head, watching you. “you’ve been playing this game for weeks. teasing me, acting like you don’t notice when i’m hard because you’re grinding on me. so i wanna know. is it just for fun? or do you actually get off on this?”

your cheeks burn. you should get up, you should say something. instead, you shift slightly in his lap, barely, and his hands tighten on your waist in warning. “don’t do that unless you’re ready to take responsibility,” he says, voice lower now, dangerous. “you wanted to know how i feel? this is it.”

you bite your lip, heart pounding. you feel too exposed, even fully dressed. like he’s peeled something open inside you and now there’s nowhere to hide. “you’re being mean,” you whisper.

he grins, sharp and slow. “good. someone’s gotta stop letting you play dumb.” you stare at him, chest tight, skin buzzing. “so,” he says again, voice softer now but no less intense. “what do you like?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud would make it real. and he watches your face, expression unreadable. and then he leans in again, voice low in your ear. “tell me what you want,” he murmurs. “or nothing happens. i’m not gonna touch you unless you ask for it.”

you don’t mean to move, not really, but your hips shift slightly, like your body’s trying to answer for you. your lips part, and for a second, you just breathe. you’re not sure where your voice went. everything’s tight in your throat, but soobin doesn’t rush you. he just waits, watching you from below with a look that’s way too composed for someone whose thighs you’re currently sitting on.

“i…” you start, barely above a whisper. “i like…”

he arches an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “yeah?”

you glare at him, cheeks burning. “don’t be smug.”

“i’m literally just sitting here,” he says, all innocent, like his fingers aren’t gripping your hips like a fucking anchor. “you’re the one grinding on me.”

you huff, exasperated, but your body betrays you again— your thighs tighten, your nails dig lightly into his shoulders. you lean in closer so you don’t have to look at him full in the eyes when you say it. “i like…” you pause, then exhale hard. “i like being in control. usually.”

he hums. “yeah?”

“with girls,” you clarify, quieter now. “it’s just always been easier. they… let me lead.”

soobin’s eyes flicker darker, but he keeps the same calm expression on his face, his voice steady. “so you’re a top,” he says, teasing, like he’s just making an observation about the weather.

you roll your eyes. “not like that.”

“no?” he tilts his head. “how then?”

you bite your lip, struggling for the words. “i mean— i like the dynamic. i like girls with that…” your voice drops. “with that… innocent face. it’s hot.”

you feel soobin’s breath hitch under you, just barely. it makes your heart spike in your chest. he laughs softly, but there’s something sharp underneath it. “so is that how you see me?”

you finally meet his eyes. they’re unreadable now, but locked onto yours with a focus that makes your stomach twist. “no,” you say, and your voice is firmer this time. “you’re not like that.”

he hums again, this time low and slow. “so what am i like, then?”

you swallow, your hands sliding slightly down his arms. “you’re… harder to read. you play along, but i know you’re not passive. you pretend you don’t care, but i can feel it when you touch me.”

“yeah?” he says, fingers tightening just slightly at your waist. “and what does that make you?”

this time you don’t look away. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i like… control. but sometimes—” you pause, frustrated at how hard it is to say. “sometimes i like giving it up.”

“why?” he asks, and his voice is quieter now. not mean, just curious. like he genuinely wants to know what makes you tick.

you think about it. “it depends,” you say slowly, choosing your words with care. “on how the person treats me. if they make me feel safe or wanted. if they deserve it.”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “and am i treating you like that right now?”

that question hits somewhere deep, somewhere between your lungs and your core, and you can’t tell if it makes you want to run or stay forever, so you nod. and he smirks, not cruel, not cocky. just knowing. “good,” he says, voice low. “because i’m not trying to play pretend with you anymore.”

you nod again, smaller this time, your breath shaky. “i don’t want to play either.”

his thumb strokes gently along your side, slow and steady, grounding you. his other hand moves up to rest lightly against the back of your neck, just holding you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips. “you like being in control,” he says, like he’s repeating it back just to make sure you know he heard you. “but you don’t need to be.”

you don’t answer out loud. your body answers for you, because your hips are rolling forward slightly without permission, the friction making you gasp. his grip tightens instantly, holding you in place. “ah ah,” he tuts, voice like velvet. “you still haven’t told me what you want.”

your head drops forward, forehead resting against his. “you’re so fucking annoying.”

he grins. “am i?”

you’re burning. your whole body is vibrating with need and frustration and anticipation. you feel like you’re going to scream if he doesn’t do something, or let you do something. “i want you to touch me,” you whisper, barely audible.

he leans in just a bit more. “gonna have to say that louder, baby.”

you grit your teeth. “fuck you.”

he smiles sweetly. “you wish.”

your fingers tighten in the fabric of his hoodie. your thighs are trembling now, and you’re so wound up you feel like your skin might split open. you inhale shakily, close your eyes, and say it again. louder this time. clearer. “i want you to touch me.”

you feel the way his breath catches, like even he wasn’t prepared to hear you say it like that. and then his voice drops, low and hot in your ear. 

“good girl.”

you almost moan at his words, but you bite your lips and hold yourself back. his hands rest on your thighs like they live there. his thumb draws slow, absent circles against your skin, barely noticeable if your entire nervous system wasn’t screaming at you. his eyes are on you like he’s watching a storm roll in. and you’re trying not to come apart over a fucking stare. you shift a little, chasing friction, and he smirks immediately.

“comfortable?” he asks, voice too soft to be innocent.

you glare. “you’re enjoying this.”

“obviously,” he says. “you’re so easy to read it’s kind of adorable.”

you roll your eyes, annoyed and flustered, which only seems to please him more. his thumb trails higher, a little closer to the hem of your shorts, but doesn’t go any further. he’s doing this on purpose. you know he is.

“you’re not gonna kiss me?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes. “is that what you want?” your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he smiles, slow and cruel and so fucking pretty. “then kiss me.” you freeze. his voice drops, lower now. “what? don’t get shy now.”

you want to hit him. you want to kiss him. you want to melt into him. mostly, you want him to stop talking. but you don’t move. so soobin leans in and exhales. “or do you just want me to do everything for you?”

you swallow hard. “you’re insufferable.”

he hums, grinning. his hand moves again, dragging up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate, until he’s cupping the underside of it, holding you just a little tighter. “you gonna kiss me or what?” he asks again, voice practically a purr. “or are you scared of that too?”

“i’m not scared.”

“then what’s stopping you?”

you stare at him. you can feel your pulse everywhere — in your neck, your wrists, between your legs. he’s right there. he’s asking for it. and still, you hesitate. so he keeps going. “you want it to be me?” he asks, fingers now pressing into your thigh a little rougher. “you want me to make the first move? pin you down? take it from you?” you shiver. “i could,” he adds. “but i won’t. not until you ask for it.”

his words hit low and deep, and you can’t tell if your thighs are shaking from nerves or want. maybe both. so you reach up, slow and hesitant, and brush your fingers along his jaw. he doesn’t move, he just waits. and when you finally lean in and kiss him, it’s like biting into lightning.

he doesn’t move at first. lets you kiss him, tentative, searching, like he wants to see how far you’ll go on your own. but when your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie and your hips shift forward instinctively, he groans low in his throat and grabs your waist tight. his mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting. like he’s been holding back for weeks and now he’s finally letting himself want. well, because he is. so he kisses rougher, deeper, his tongue slipping into your mouth like it belongs there. and when you whimper, he pulls back just barely, breathing hard.

“that what you wanted?” he asks, voice ragged now. you nod, dazed. he kisses the corner of your mouth. your jaw. down your neck. everywhere but where you’re begging for it. “you’re gonna have to be more specific,” he murmurs against your skin. “i wanna hear exactly what you like.”

your hips grind down again. he grips your thighs harder, holds you in place. “you like being on top?” he asks, almost amused.

you nod, biting your lip. “sometimes.”

“but not tonight?” he asks, tilting his head. “you want me to take over, baby?” you can’t speak. you just breathe and nod. he grins. “you know what to do then.”

you press your forehead to his, shaky and desperate and so ready to say it. “please,” you whisper. “i want you.”

“how bad?” he asks.

“i can’t think,” you breathe. “i need you to do something.”

he chuckles — low, smug, wrecked. “good. now we’re getting somewhere.”

his hand is on your throat before you even process it. not squeezing, just resting there, firm enough to feel the beat of your pulse against his palm. he holds your gaze steady with his, like he’s daring you to pull away. you don’t. your breath comes out shaky and uneven, and his thumb strokes just once along the column of your neck. “say it again,” he murmurs, voice low and unforgiving.

you swallow hard. “need you to do something. please.”

he nods once, like that’s all he needed. his other hand slides up under your hoodie, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your waist. his fingers are cold at first, but the way they move is purposeful, not searching, not unsure. he knows what he’s doing. he drags his hand up slowly, deliberately, until his palm rests just under your bra.

“like this?” he asks, thumb teasing the edge of the fabric. “or do you want more?”

you gasp, breath catching. “more.”

he grins, lazy and infuriating. “thought so.”

he slides your hoodie up, not bothering to take it off, just pushing it out of the way enough to get what he wants. his hands move with a kind of patience that makes you ache, like he’s got all the time in the world to make you lose your mind. he cups your breasts through the thin fabric, thumbing over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. you arch into it without thinking. “you like that?” he asks, voice close to your ear.

“yes.”

“say it.”

“i like it.”

his hand dips lower, sliding down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your shorts. his fingers toy with the edge like he’s still deciding if he’s going to keep going. “you want me to take these off too?”you nod, dizzy. he clicks his tongue. “use your words.”

“yes. take them off.”

he drags them down slowly, watching your face the whole time. he wants to see everything— the way your lips part, the way your body tenses when he touches you, the way you shiver when the fabric brushes down your legs. you kick them off and now you’re in nothing but your underwear, straddling him, your hoodie still half pushed up, breath coming in shaky bursts.

“fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “you’re really just gonna sit here looking like that and expect me to behave?”

“i like it,” you manage to say.

he smirks. “of course you do.” 

his hands slide down slow, fingers splaying wide as they skim the sides of your thighs, tracing the shape of you like he’s memorizing it. and then they’re under your ass, lifting you just enough so he can shift your panties to the side, fingers brushing over where you’re wet and aching. he whistles low, mouth curling into a grin. “fuck,” he mutters. “you really needed this, didn’t you?”

you let out a shaky breath, gripping his shoulders like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. your whole body jolts at the first real contact, the drag of his fingers through your folds, slow and sure, like he’s testing what you can handle. “so wet for me already,” he murmurs, circling your clit with maddening precision. “and i haven’t even done anything yet.”

he rubs slow circles with the heel of his palm, watching you squirm. your hips jerk instinctively, but his hands pin you down. he keeps you still, makes you feel every slow movement, every teasing glide. he’s not in a rush. you might be desperate, but he isn’t. not anymore. still, he slips a finger inside you, slow, deliberate, and your whole body tightens around him. he groans low in his throat.

“tight,” he mutters, adding a second finger without warning. “jesus. you’d fall apart if i fucked you right now.” you moan, breathless. “you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he says, curling his fingers just right. “after all that teasing.”

“yes—”

his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight, lazy circles as his fingers fuck into you deep and steady. you can’t breathe, can’t think, just clutch at him like you’re drowning. and then he leans in close, voice a growl against your ear. “you need someone to put you in your place,” he says. “you act like you’re in charge, but look at you now. look how easy it is to break you.”

your thighs tremble around his hips, pleasure building sharp and fast, overwhelming. “you like being handled like this, don’t you?” he asks again, his tone dark, laced with smug delight. 

“yes,” you gasp, hips twitching.

“of course you do,” he says. “you like being fucked slow. deep. with a hand on your throat so you remember who’s in charge.” his other hand slides up again, fingers wrapping gently around your neck and your whole body tenses in response. “you make everything so difficult,” he says. “all your mixed signals, all your little games. but this? this is simple. this is what you really wanted.”

your walls clench around his fingers as your body tips over the edge, sudden and hard and overwhelming. your mouth falls open in a moan you can’t stop, hips jerking despite the grip he has on you. he doesn’t let up. just keeps fucking you through it, watching your face the whole time.

“look at you,” he breathes. “so fucking pretty like this. i should’ve done this a long time ago.” your body’s shaking when he finally slows down. he pulls his fingers out and brings them to his lips, licking them clean like he’s tasting something expensive. “mm,” he says. “sweet.”

you stare at him, wrecked and speechless, still trying to remember how your lungs work. then he leans in, takes his fingers back to your clenching cunt again, his voice rough in your ear. “tell me how it feels.”

you grip his shoulders tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie. “it feels good.”

“how good?”

“i don’t know—fuck—soobin—”

he presses a little harder, the friction just right now, and your hips jerk again. “you like when i touch you here?” he asks, eyes locked on yours, no trace of softness in his voice.

“yes,” you breathe. “yes, i do.”

his fingers slide between your folds, slick and warm, and he lets out a low groan. “fuck,” he mutters again. “you’re soaked.” you whimper, forehead dropping to his shoulder. his fingers move with ease, finding your clit again and circling it with infuriating slowness.

“look at me,” he says. you lift your head, barely. your eyes meet his, and the intensity there nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. he curls his fingers inside you, hitting just the right spot, and you cry out before you can stop yourself. your hips grind down, chasing the pressure. “needy little thing,” he says, amused. “so much for being in control.”

you whimper again, half shame, half desperation. he’s relentless now, thrusting his fingers in and out while his thumb circles your clit, pushing you higher, closer. “soobin—”

“tell me you’re close.”

“i’m close,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

he leans in again, lips ghosting over your ear. “then say please.” you hesitate, and his pace slows. “come on,” he murmurs. “you’ve been bossing me around for months. let me hear you beg.”

you’re shaking now, thighs trembling around him, every nerve on fire. “please,” you whisper.

“louder.”

“please, soobin—please don’t stop.”

his mouth curves into a grin, and he gives you exactly what you asked for. “good girl,” he says again, and this time, you fall apart in his fingers, and god, this feeling is smoothing, something you don’t remember feeling it before. 

you’re still in his lap, limbs loose, head buzzing, the movie’s looping on the laptop like background noise at a bad dream rave. his hand is parked on your waist—heavy but not pushing, more placeholder than threat—and you can’t decide if you’re melting into him or trying to keep from slipping clean off the planet.

he’s the one who breaks the hush. “you’re thinking again,” he says, voice low.

you don’t look at him. “i’m recovering.”

“that’s what i’m worried about.” his thumb taps a slow beat against your skin. “every time you start thinking, you talk yourself out of wanting me.”

you snort, tired and raw. “i literally just made a mess on your hand. i think the wanting part is confirmed.”

“for now,” he says. “in ten minutes you’ll start reciting the ‘i’m not that into guys’ speech again, and i’ll be back at square one.”

you lift your eyes, glare half-heartedly. “square one was me calling you pretty in a kitchen full of tequila fumes. i’d say we’ve upgraded.”

“fine,” he admits, lips twitching. “square two, then. still a demotion from where i’m sitting.”

you finally meet his gaze, and it is clear, unflinching, annoyingly perceptive, and something inside you trips. the room tilts a millimeter. because you realize he isn’t holding you tighter, he isn’t trying to start round two, he’s just… waiting.

the silence stretches. your brain tries to sprint off a cliff, but your body’s too heavy to follow. so you talk, because you can’t not. “i’m not gonna pretend i’m suddenly into guys again,” you say, words slurred around honesty. “and i’m definitely not in love with you, so don’t get weird.”

“bold of you to assume i want either,” he shoots back, all teeth.

you blink. “you don’t?”

“i like you messy,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “in love is boring. this—” he gestures to the tangle of limbs and shame you’re both stewing in— “this is entertaining.”

you should probably punch him. instead you laugh, breathless. “you are absolutely dirty.”

he smiles, small but real. “dirty keeps you on my lap, apparently.”

you roll your eyes, shift, realize he’s still hard beneath you and freeze. he notices, of course he does, and tilts his head, studying your face. “thinking again,” he murmurs.

“wondering,” you correct, voice thin.

“about?”

“if i should, um… help you?”

his brows lift. “help?” he echoes, amused. “sound mighty altruistic of you.”

“shut up,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “i’m new at this.”

“new at what?”

“wanting a guy enough to… you know.”

he hums, all fake contemplation. “we could have a symposium. ‘introduction to blowing choi soobin.’” you smack his chest; he laughs, catches your wrist, threads your fingers through his. the joke dissolves, but the warmth sticks. “we can slow down,” he says, quieter now. “or stop. or order pizza. i don’t care—just don’t ghost me.”

you stare at him, throat tight. “i don’t want to stop,” you whisper.

his thumb strokes the back of your hand. “good. then tell me how you want to start.”

the question hangs there, simple but also terrifying. your pulse trips a little faster. “kiss me again,” you answer, voice steadier than you feel. “but slow.”

“slow.” he nods, serious. “any further instructions, boss?”

“don’t call me boss,” you mutter.

“princess?” you glare. 

“soobin,” you warn.

his grin spreads, wolfish. “see? thinking stopped. progress.”

he leans in (slow, like requested) and kisses you softer than before, mouths parting, breath catching, no rush. your hands slide up into his hair, anchor there; his free hand cups the back of your neck, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. and when you finally pull back, you’re trembling again, but it’s a quieter shake.

his eyes search yours. “so?”

you laugh into his shoulder. “shut up and keep going.”

“sure,” he whispers, mouth brushing yours, “but remember—if you want more, you ask.”

you nod, firm. “i will. i promise.”

you don’t remember when his hands started moving again, but they’re under your hoodie again now. his mouth is still pressed against yours, but the kiss has changed. it’s deeper and slower. and he’s not letting you lead anymore. he tilts your chin up with one hand, holds you there like he’s adjusting the angle of something he owns. his other hand slides along your spine, dragging heat everywhere it touches.

his hands slide back down to your hips, pulling you toward him until you’re close enough to feel everything again. he shifts his leg just slightly between yours and applies the lightest pressure, forcing you to roll your hips against his thigh. your mouth falls open without meaning to.

“feels good?” he asks, low.

“yeah,” you whisper.

he hums, unimpressed. “what was that?”

“yes,” you say again, louder.

his hand moves to the back of your neck. not rough, just enough to hold you still. to keep you looking at him. “you’re gonna do what i say,” he says. “because you want to. not because i make you.” you nod. “say it.”

“i want to,” you whisper.

“you want what?”

“i want to do what you say.”

he smiles. “then take your hoodie off.”

your hands move before your brain catches up. you pull it over your head, toss it to the floor. your chest is rising and falling too fast, and he’s just sitting there, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

his gaze drags over your body, slow and hungry, but he still doesn’t touch. instead, he leans back slightly and says, “take off your bra.”

your fingers fumble a little, but you do it. it joins the hoodie on the floor. he exhales like it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to. and then he looks you in the eyes again. your body’s humming, nerves and heat and need all tangled together. his hands slide up to cup your chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples, slow and deliberate. he watches every twitch of your face as he touches you.

“you like being told what to do?” he asks, voice low, dragging.

“yeah.”

he raises an eyebrow. “say it.”

“i like being told what to do.”

he kisses you slow one last time before pulling back. “then get off,” he says quietly.

you blink, breathless, already lightheaded. “what?”

he tilts his head. “off my lap. on your knees. on the ​​floor.”

you stare for half a second. then your body moves before your brain can argue. you climb off the bed and drop down onto the floor between his legs, palms pressing into the hardwood for balance. your knees hit the floor, and the air shifts.

he exhales like the sight alone is enough to wreck him. his legs spread wider, slow, deliberate, and he leans forward a little, one hand cupping the side of your face. his thumb drags along your cheek, down to your lip. “look at you,” he murmurs. “you ever been on your knees for a guy before?” you shake your head. he smiles. smirks, really. “good.”

his thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping inside just slightly. your mouth parts for him on instinct. “open,” he says, and you do. he pushes his thumb in deeper, then pulls it out just as slow. “good girl.”

your breath stutters. he leans forward more, one elbow resting on his thigh as he looks down at you. “you’re doing so well for me. on your knees, waiting for what i give you. you don’t even know how pretty you look like this.” his other hand slides into your hair, not hard, but firm. guiding and steady. you can feel how calm he is—like this is just natural for him. like having someone kneeling between his legs is a position he was meant for. “hands behind your back,” he says.

you obey, slowly, feeling the shift in your own body when you do. your balance changes. your chest pushes forward slightly. your breath feels deeper and needier. he smiles. “you want to do something for me?”

“yes,” you whisper.

“then ask.” your throat tightens. he leans closer, almost nose-to-nose, his voice a quiet threat. “ask me what you want, baby.”

“can i…” your voice breaks. you swallow. “can i touch you?”

he leans back, sits up straight, eyes heavy on yours. “you want to touch me?”

“yes.”

“where?”

your cheeks burn. “your cock.”

his breath hitches. he doesn’t show much, but that gets him. a shift in his jaw. a slight flex of his thigh. “say it again.”

you breathe in. “i want to touch your cock.”

he smiles. “then take it out.”

you move carefully, your hands now free again, fingers working his waistband, slow and precise. you don’t rush. he watches you the entire time, like you’re a performance made just for him. and when you finally pull him out, hard and heavy in your palm, his breath leaves in one long, quiet exhale.

you look up, eyes wide. “now what?” you ask, voice barely there.

he smirks again, hand back in your hair. “first, you keep those pretty eyes on mine the entire time,” he says, voice low and dark. his hand tightens just slightly in your hair, not painful, just present. like a reminder: he’s the one leading. “start slow,” he says, voice steady. “get used to the way i feel in your hand.”

you swallow, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. he’s warm and heavy. hard enough to make your pulse spike just from the weight of him in your palm. you glance up. “like this?” you ask.

he nods once, but doesn’t say anything. just watches. the corner of his mouth lifts a little. proud, curious and patient. you start to stroke, slow and careful, your thumb brushing over the head like you’ve done this before—you did, but it’s different with him. he makes it feel deliberate, like every movement matters.

“good,” he murmurs. “tighter. don’t be scared.”

you adjust, hand squeezing a little more, sliding down and back up in a steady rhythm. you’re learning how he twitches, how his breath catches, how his thighs tense a little under your arms when you get the pressure right. he lets out a quiet groan.

“yeah. just like that,” he says, hand sliding to cradle the side of your face. his thumb traces your cheekbone. “you’re so fucking good at this, fuck—” you blush, ridiculous considering the situation, and he smirks. “you like hearing that?” he asks.

you nod. “yeah.”

he hums, thumb brushing your lips again. “then earn more of it.”

your hand speeds up slightly, bolder now. you’re watching him just as much as he’s watching you, studying every reaction. every flicker in his eyes, every tiny breath that tells you yes, this.

“spit on it,” he says suddenly, and your stomach flips. you glance up again. he looks right back, unblinking. “go ahead. don’t be shy.” you lean in, let spit fall from your lips, and he groans when it lands just right, messy and perfect. “fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, hips jerking slightly. “that mouth’s gonna ruin me.”

you stroke him again with your now-wet hand, and his jaw clenches. he leans forward, hand sliding back into your hair, this time with more grip.

“open your mouth,” he says. you do, lips parting obediently. he taps the tip of his cock against your tongue, slow, dragging it over your bottom lip, and you hold still, waiting, not rushing. letting him guide you. “don’t take me yet,” he says. “just taste.”

you lick him, slow and soft, and his eyes flutter half-closed. “again,” he says. his voice is lower now, strained. you lean forward more, lips wrapping around just the tip, sucking gently. “fuck,” he breathes, thumb brushing your cheek. “you keep looking at me like that and i’m gonna lose it.”

you moan softly around him, just enough to make him shudder. his hand tightens in your hair. “you want to keep going?” he asks. you nod, mouth still full, eyes wide. he groans again. “then you’re gonna take what i give you.”

and you do. you let him guide the rhythm, slow thrusts, shallow, letting you get used to the weight, the stretch. his grip is steady, voice low as he talks you through every inch. “you’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “look so fucking pretty on your knees like this. taking it like a good girl.”

you press your thighs together, pulse pounding in your ears. your whole body’s on fire, but you don’t stop. you keep your eyes on his. you let him control the pace. you listen. because nothing’s ever felt quite like this. he’s barely holding himself back now, his hips rolling deeper into your mouth, hand fisted in your hair, jaw clenched tight. your throat’s sore, your lips stretched, spit dripping from your chin, but you don’t stop. you don’t want to stop.

“fuck, that’s it,” he growls, voice sharp. “you like this, don’t you? like being used like this.”

you hum around him, and his whole body jolts. his other hand grips the edge of the bed like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. he’s panting now, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours as your head bobs with the rhythm he’s set.

“look at you,” he hisses. “so fucking obedient now. you’ll take anything i give you, won’t you?”

you nod, gagging just a little as he pushes deeper. his thumb brushes your cheek again, almost tender, but not soft. “shit, baby,” he groans. “just like that. don’t stop. don’t you fucking stop.” his breathing gets rougher. his thighs tense. his grip tightens. “you’re gonna take every fucking drop,” he says, voice low and wild. “don’t even think about pulling back.”

and when he comes, it’s with a broken, wrecked moan, his head falling back, his whole body shuddering. he holds you there, deep in your throat, as his cock pulses between your lips. you stay still. obedient. take every drop, exactly how he told you to. he pulls out slow, panting hard, watching you swallow every bit like it’s a reward.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re dangerous.”

your legs are shaking, your body’s buzzing and your throat hurts. but your eyes are still on him. and he smiles.

he leans forward, grabs your arms, and pulls you off the floor like you weigh nothing. places you back in his lap, one hand still wrapped in your hair, the other gripping your thigh. his voice is calmer now, but darker.

“so?” he asks, breath still a little ragged. “you like praise better?”

you blink. “what?”

“you like when i call you a good girl?” he says, fingers brushing your jaw. “tell you how pretty you look on your knees?”

you nod, a little dazed. “yeah…”

his hand tightens suddenly on your thigh. “or do you like it more when i talk to you like a fucking toy?” your breath catches. his eyes narrow. “like when i say you’re only good for your mouth? that you were made to take cock and nothing else?” you gasp. your body tenses, and he sees the reaction instantly. his smirk spreads slow. “that’s what i thought,” he says.

your voice is barely a whisper. “i like both.”

he raises a brow. “yeah?”

you meet his gaze. “you can do whatever you want.”

his eyes darken completely. something in him shifts. he leans in close, voice like a promise against your skin. “you don’t know what you just agreed to.”

he hasn’t let go of you. your legs are thrown across his lap now, arms limp around his shoulders, your chest pressed to his. and still he’s got one hand curled around your jaw like he’s not done claiming it. he tilts your face up and studies you. not like you’re fragile, but like you’re fascinating.

he chuckles, meanly. “you look wrecked, baby. wrecked and all fucking mine.” his fingers trail down your neck, slow and soft. “you like when i say that?” he murmurs. “that you’re mine?”

you nod, small. “yeah.”

he kisses the edge of your jaw. “you like being good?”

“yes.”

he smirks against your skin. “but you also like when i treat you like a dumb little toy.” your whole body tenses. he chuckles again. “you fucking melt when i talk like that, huh?” he says. “wanna be praised and spat on in the same breath.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you. your face flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy. “fuck, you’re pretty when you don’t know what to do with yourself,” he says, almost admiring. “bet you don’t even know who you are when i touch you like this.”

his hand slides down your stomach—over the curve of your hip—back between your thighs, over your ruined underwear. you gasp and twitch. he grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.” he presses just a little harder, fingers rubbing through the fabric. “still this wet for me? even after everything?”

you nod, biting your lip. he tsks, shaking his head. “you don’t learn, do you?”

you swallow, trembling. “i wanna be good.”

he chuckles. “you are. but you’re also a little desperate. greedy. filthy.” his fingers tug your panties to the side and slide against you again, slow, controlled, so light it makes you ache. “should i finger you again like this?” he says. “while you sit in my lap like a good girl? or should i bend you over and fuck the brat out of you?”

your breath catches in your throat. “or maybe i shouldn’t touch you at all,” he adds, tilting his head. “maybe you don’t get to come unless you beg.”

“soobin—”

he grabs your chin again, eyes sharp. “say it.”

you’re panting now. hot and flustered and completely under him. “please,” you whisper. he waits. “please touch me,” you say again, voice cracking. “please make me come.”

his smirk is slow. cruel. gorgeous. “that’s more like it.”he slides two fingers back inside you without warning, and your whole body jolts. “you’re gonna take everything i give you,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna say thank you when you come.” your legs shake. your grip on his shirt tightens. “say it.”

“thank you,” you breathe.

he kisses you—filthy, fast—and then breaks away, breath hot against your mouth. “don’t come yet.”

he’s not moving fast. he’s not giving you what you want, not really. and that’s the point. he’s watching you, studying you, like he’s waiting for something specific. a crack. a shift. the moment where your body stops trying to lead and just listens. he leans back slightly, his fingers inside you don’t speed up, and they don’t slow down either. just deep enough to tease, never enough to let you lose yourself. he’s giving you nothing and everything at once.

he watches your face closely, eyes scanning your mouth, your eyebrows, the way your breath catches. you’re close, he knows it. he can feel the way your body tightens around him, the way your thighs shake just barely. you’re trying to hold back. trying not to move too much. it’s cute, in a way. respectful, obedient even. but he doesn’t want nice right now.

“you’re doing it again,” he says, voice low, calm.

your eyes flutter open, confused. “what?”

“holding it in,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your waist. “trying to be good in the wrong way.”

you blink, breath trembling. “i thought you wanted—”

he cuts you off with a quiet laugh, not mocking, just amused. “i want you to be good, yeah. but not quiet. not frozen. not careful.” his fingers slide deeper and you gasp, hips twitching. “good doesn’t mean silent.” he leans in, mouth near your ear. “if i wanted a doll, i’d buy one.”

your breath stutters. your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly, and that makes him smile. “there you go,” he murmurs. “there’s my girl.” he moves his fingers again, just a little faster now, just enough to make your whole body jerk. you bite your lip hard, trying not to cry out. “still fighting it?” he says. “you think i don’t notice how tight you’re clenching around my hand? you think i don’t feel how close you are?”

you shake your head, desperate. he pulls back slightly to look at you. “look at me.” you do, barely. your vision’s blurry, and your mouth’s open, and you’re so close it almost hurts. “you wanna come?” he asks, calm. direct.

“yes,” you breathe.

“you sure?” you nod. his voice drops lower. “you ready to say thank you when you do?”

you nod again, more frantically. he keeps his eyes on yours as his thumb finally finds your clit, rubbing slow circles while his fingers thrust deeper. your whole body reacts at once, tensing, jerking, then unraveling. 

“come for me,” he says, and you do.

it hits hard, sharp and blinding. your legs tremble. your fingers dig into his arms. your mouth opens but nothing comes out except broken gasps and a soft, choked sob. and through all of it, his hand doesn’t leave you. he works you through it, slow, steady, like he’s memorizing every second.

your body slumps against his chest. he holds you there for a moment, his hand still resting between your legs but not moving anymore. you’re breathing hard, face pressed into his shoulder. then his mouth finds your ear again. “thank me.”

you whisper it without thinking. “thank you.”

he exhales, satisfied. his fingers slip out of you, slow and careful. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean without breaking eye contact. you watch, dazed, and he grins. “good girl.”

he lifts you gently, shifts you until you’re straddling him again, your knees on either side of his hips, your body still shaky. his hands hold your waist firmly, steadying you like he knows you can’t do it on your own yet.

he tilts your chin up, and there’s something new in his eyes now—still dark, still dominant, but softer around the edges. like he’s trying to decide something. “you were made for this,” he says, quiet. “you know that, right?”

you swallow hard. “yeah.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, and then he leans back, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he’s just relaxing, like he’s not watching every single twitch in your body. you’re still on his lap, still catching your breath when he says, low and steady, “get on.”

you look at him, confused, dazed. “what?”

he grabs your hips, drags you forward slightly, then leans in just enough for you to feel his breath on your jaw. “you like being on top, right?” he says, voice calm but full of something sharper underneath. “so ride me.”

your heart stutters. your thighs are still shaking. he knows.

“go ahead,” he says. “show me how good you are.”

you shift back slowly, thighs trembling, one hand steadying yourself on his chest while the other wraps around his cock. he’s already hard again—how is he already this hard?—and thick in your palm, warm and heavy. you hold him there, just under the tip, as you line yourself up, and for a second, you hesitate.

you bite your lip. your body’s still sensitive, your legs sore, your mind fogged, and there’s a pressure building low in your stomach that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the way your heart starts to race. it’s been a long time since you let a guy inside you. since you even wanted to. and even now, it feels foreign. like your body’s remembering something it forgot on purpose.

but you want this. you want him. so you press down slowly, barely taking the tip, and your breath catches in your throat. he doesn’t say anything, just watches. his hands resting on your hips, not moving, not pushing. but he’s tense and alert. like he knows you’re struggling and he’s waiting to see how far you’ll go on your own.

you lower yourself more, inch by inch, and the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut. it burns. not unbearable, but tight, too tight. your thighs start to tremble harder, and your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance. his grip on your hips tightens.

“breathe,” he says, calm. “take your time.”

you nod, shaky, and try to relax. you ease down another inch, and your whole body reacts—hips twitching, core clenching, thighs starting to cramp. it’s too much all at once, and not enough at the same time.

he exhales slow, voice lower now. “you’re doing good. keep going.”

you swallow hard. “fuck, i—”

he cuts you off gently, one hand lifting to brush your hair from your face. “don’t stop now. you wanted to ride my cock, right? prove you can take it.”

you whimper, breath catching again, and finally sink lower, slowly taking more of him. your legs feel weak. your cunt clenches tight around him, and the stretch still burns, but underneath it, there’s something else. a pulse. a heat that starts to take over the discomfort.

he groans quietly, his jaw tense. “shit. you’re so tight.” you press your forehead to his collarbone, trying to stay steady. “don’t hide,” he says. “let me see you.” you lift your head, barely, and his eyes lock on yours. “good girl,” he mutters. “you’re almost there. just a little more.”

you shift again, forcing your hips down further, until you’re fully seated in his lap. he groans, deep and low, his fingers pressing harder into your skin. “fuck. there you go.”

you’re breathing hard, thighs trembling, everything inside you stretched to its limit. “hurts?” he asks. you shake your head. he smiles, not sweet. “good.” you glare at him, but there’s no strength behind it. “you’ll get used to it,” he says, voice low. you sink down slow, body trembling, and his grip tightens on your hips. “that’s it,” he mutters. “fuck—look at you.”

you start to move, unsure at first. he lets you find your rhythm, lets you work for it, but his hands don’t leave you. he keeps you steady, fingers digging into your waist. his eyes never leave your face.

“you like being in charge?” he says, breath rougher now. “then don’t fucking slow down.” you moan softly, trying to keep the pace, but your legs are tired, your body already wrecked. your movements falter, and he notices immediately. “what’s wrong?” he says, lips curling. “getting tired already? thought you liked being on top.”

you try to keep going, bouncing slow, your hands braced on his chest.

“keep your eyes on me,” he says. you do, barely, and he grins when he sees the look in your face. “you’re falling apart,” he murmurs. “and you’ve barely done anything.” 

he doesn’t slow down. he grabs your chin again, makes you look at him. “ride me like you mean it,” he snaps, thrusting up into you suddenly, making your whole body jolt.

“fuck, soobin—”

“no. don’t whine. you wanted this. show me.” you try. you move your hips, faster this time, trying to match him. he watches you closely, hands on your ass now, guiding your movement, controlling the depth. “that’s better,” he says. “now you’re working for it.”

you gasp, leaning forward, forehead on his shoulder. he grabs your hair and pulls your head back up. “no hiding. i wanna see you struggle.” your thighs are shaking so hard it’s hard to keep the rhythm. your breathing’s uneven, your nails digging into his arms. “you can take it,” he says, voice lower now, almost gentle. “i know you can. you’re my good girl, remember?”

you moan again, louder, and he smiles. “there she is,” he murmurs. “knew you’d come back to me.” your hips stutter again, and he slaps your ass once, not hard, just firm enough to make you move. “don’t stop until i say,” he says. “and if you come first, you’re doing it with my name in your mouth.”

your fingers grip his shoulders harder, your thighs are burning now, trembling with effort, but you force yourself to keep going. up, down, again. you’re trying to stay focused, but the stretch of him inside you, the heat building low in your stomach, the pressure of his hands guiding you—it’s all too much, and not enough at once.

he watches you the whole time, eyes fixed on your face. you can’t hide anything from him like this. not the way your brows pinch together, not the way your mouth keeps falling open with each bounce, not the quiet, broken sounds that slip out no matter how hard you try to hold them in. 

“you wanted this,” he reminds you, calm. you nod, desperate, hips moving faster now, sloppy and uneven but still trying. he lets you ride him, lets you feel like you’re in control, just for a second, until he shifts beneath you and fucks up into you hard, once, and your whole body folds forward with a gasp. “thought so,” he mutters.

your forehead falls against his collarbone, and he pulls your hair, tilting your face up again. “no hiding.” his mouth brushes yours, not quite a kiss. “you look like you’re gonna cry.”

“i’m not,” you breathe, though your voice is shaking.

“you will if i tell you not to come yet,” he says, like it’s just a thought. you whimper. his hand moves from your hip to your throat, loose but solid, just enough to hold you still. “you like this?” he asks. “being used like this?” you nod quickly, eyes fluttering shut. “don’t lie.”

“i’m not.”

he leans in, lips by your ear again. “you gonna come for me?”

“yes.”

“say my name.” you pause, too close to think. “say it.”

“soobin…”

he groans, deep and low, and that’s all it takes for his rhythm to break. he grabs your waist hard and starts fucking up into you, fast now, with purpose, like he’s chasing the end and dragging you there with him. “come on,” he mutters. “come for me. make it count.”

you do. your whole body shudders, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan. everything inside you pulls tight and snaps all at once, and you collapse against him, shaking. he holds you through it, breath heavy against your ear, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s trying to keep you from slipping through his fingers.

then he moves. he lifts you off him slowly, carefully, lays you down on the bed like you weigh nothing. you’re still catching your breath, blinking at the ceiling, when you feel the mattress dip again and his weight settles beside you. his fingers slide down your stomach, soft now, slow. “you like praise,” he says, almost casual. “but i think you like it more when i’m mean.”

you glance at him, lips parted. he leans in close. “so tell me, baby,” he murmurs. “you want me to ruin you with my mouth or just make you cry again first?”

“i can’t,” you breathe, voice shaky. “i can’t take it anymore.”

he tilts his head, like he’s not sure he heard you right. his hands are already back on your thighs, spreading them open again, his body moving lower, slower, like this is nothing for him. like he’s just getting started. “can’t?” he repeats, tone light, mocking. “you sure, baby?”

you swallow hard, legs twitching under his grip. he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, kissing slow, warm, soft, too soft. like he’s pretending to be sweet again. and it only makes the tension worse. “you looked so fucking confident riding my cock,” he murmurs, right against your skin. “and now you’re what? tapped out?” you shake your head weakly, but he keeps going, lips trailing higher, breath hotter. “you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

“no.”

“then don’t say can’t,” he says, and bites down on the inside of your thigh, sharp enough to make your hips jerk. “say please.” your breath catches. “say it.”

“please,” you whisper, barely audible.

he smiles against your skin. “thought so.”

he kisses higher, right between your legs now, and you gasp when his mouth finally finds you again, tongue slow, deliberate, dragging over your sensitive skin with zero mercy. you’re already overstimulated, every nerve lit up and shaking, but he doesn’t stop. he knows you’re right there again, and that’s exactly what he wants.

“you’ve teased me for weeks,” he says, voice muffled against you. “walking around in those tiny fucking shorts. sitting on my lap like it’s nothing. saying shit like ‘you’re my favorite boy’ with that little smirk on your face.” you whine, twisting under him, but he holds your hips down with one arm and licks a slow circle around your clit without touching it directly. “you think i didn’t notice? think i didn’t see you bite your lip every time i looked at you too long?”

you’re panting now, legs trembling again. “and now you wanna act all shy?” he scoffs. “now you can’t take it?” his mouth finally closes around your clit, sucking slow and deep, and your hips buck hard, but he doesn’t stop. “you can take more,” he mutters. your fingers find his hair, tugging, trying to anchor yourself to something while your body starts to come undone all over again. “i’ll be gentle,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, mouth wet, eyes dark. “but only if you fucking ask.”

you stare down at him, dazed, lips parted. “go on,” he says. “ask for it.”

“please,” you gasp, voice breaking. “please, soobin—be gentle.”

he grins against your skin, slow and cruel. not because he wants to be mean. because he can. because you gave him permission. “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “knew you could ask nicely.”

then he moves again, mouth right where you need him, tongue flat and slow against your clit this time, no teasing now. just heat, rhythm, and pressure. your hands grab at his hair, your back arching off the bed, and he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even pause. “fuck, you’re so wet like this,” he says, voice low, fingers gripping your thighs to keep you wide open. you moan, louder now, hips trying to move against his face, chasing the rhythm. “good girl,” he mutters. “you want to come for me like this?”

“yes—yes, please—”

“then keep your legs open.”

you do. you try. your whole body’s tight, burning, desperate. he knows exactly how to keep you right there, his tongue curling just right, lips pressing just enough, his hand slipping lower, fingers teasing your entrance without going in. “you close?” he asks, voice rough and muffed now. 

you nod frantically. “so close—please don’t stop—”

he groans into you, and the vibration alone almost pushes you over the edge. his fingers finally slip inside, two of them, smooth and deep, curling just right, and that’s it. you fall apart.

your whole body spasms, legs trembling violently, a loud moan breaking from your throat as you come hard, everything clenching tight around his fingers. your vision goes white for a second, and you barely register the way he keeps going, slow now, helping you ride it out, dragging every last wave out of you until you collapse into the sheets, twitching and breathless.

he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawling up over you, eyes dark and satisfied. “you’re so fucking hot like this,” he says, voice low. “all soft. all mine.” you can’t even speak yet. your chest rises and falls, skin flushed, lips parted. he leans down. “now,” he says, tone shifting—less gentle, more commanding again. “turn over.”

you don’t speak. you just move. your body shifts slowly, limbs still weak, and you roll onto your stomach like he asked, like he told you to. your face sinks into the pillow, and you feel his eyes on your back. you know what he sees: the curve of your spine, the way your legs part instinctively, the way you arch your back so he sees your ass available for him to take it. you hear him exhale, sharp through his nose. a pause, then the bed dips as he moves behind you, knees spreading yours a little more, hands running down your back with purpose, not care. he doesn’t soothe. he positions.

soobin stays still at first, taking his time. watching how you lay there for him, waiting. looking how your shoulders tense like you don’t know what’s coming next, but you want to. he likes that. he likes that a lot.

his hands drag down your back, not to comfort, but to arrange. he touches you like he’s correcting something. a tool out of place. a painting hung crooked. “lower,” he says. you sink deeper into the mattress. his palm lands between your shoulder blades, keeping you there. “stay.”

then nothing. just the weight of his hand. the silence. he takes a deep breath. “you have any idea how long i’ve waited for this?”

you don’t answer. he leans down, lips barely brushing your ear. “how many times i pictured you just like this?” his voice is calm, almost bored. “on all fours for me,” he mutters. “but you talk too much. always making jokes. always pretending like you’re not dying for me to shut you up.” his fingers slide down your side, pausing at your hip. “you don’t get to pretend now.” his grip tightens. “so stop fidgeting.” he forces your hips up, adjusts the angle himself like your body’s just another thing to be handled. “just like that,” he says. “good girl.”

he doesn’t rush. doesn’t say more than he needs to. because he knows you’re listening to every breath, every word, every shift in tone. and when his cock teases your cunt and he watches the way your body twitches. the way you don’t stop him. “still so sensitive,” he mutters. “but you’ll take it.” he presses slow, watching you squirm, watching you try to be still. “don’t you dare move.” you breathe out hard. he can hear it. feel it. “that’s what i thought.”

he pushes deeper. drags it out. makes sure you feel every second of it. then he leans back, sitting tall behind you, hands steady on your waist. this isn’t about what you want. not anymore. so he aligns his cock with your drooling entrance again, and smacks his hand in your ass, and you whimper, a whiny whimper. he chuckles, low and provocative. “you’re not gonna come until i say,” he says. “and if you do, i’ll edge you ‘til you cry.”

you whimper into the pillow. “but if you listen?” he continues. “i’ll let you come so hard you forget your own name.” he rolls his hips forward, just once, just enough to make you scream. his cock makes you feel so full already, especially in that position. your legs shake. “choice is yours. not mine,” he adds. “yours.”

he pauses again. then pulls back, only to snap his hips forward harder this time, controlled and deep. again. again. his pace isn’t rushed. it’s mean. efficient. every thrust timed with precision. he watches your hands claw at the sheets. hears the sounds you’re trying to hold back, and it makes him smile. “you were so sure you didn’t like boys,” he mutters. “but look at you now.” another thrust, harder. “fucked out like a bitch.”

his hand slides to your throat from behind again, just resting there. “you’re mine tonight,” he says. “say it.” 

“i’m yours,” you whisper.

he grins. “louder.”

“i’m yours, soobin! please!” you choke out.

his grip tightens, choking slightly, just containing you, grounding you to the moment. then he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “yes, yes,” he says. “you are fucking mine.”

if anything, now that you’ve said it—i’m yours—he settles deeper into it, into you. into the full weight of what it means to have you like this: pliant, spread out, quiet except for the sounds you can’t hold back. it’s not just about the physical now. it’s the power. the permission. and he’s going to stretch it as far as it can go.

his hands stay locked on your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he fucks into you slow and heavy, no urgency in his pace, just control. all of it his. he watches your shoulders tighten with each movement, the way your back arches when it’s too much, the way your face twists into the sheets to muffle sounds you don’t want him to hear. he hears them anyway. he loves them.

your hand reaches for the pillow, gripping tight, but you don’t fight him. you don’t even ask him to slow down. he leans over you again, pressing down on your back with one hand to keep you steady, his chest brushing your spine. his breath fans hot against your shoulder as his hips drive into yours again, firmer now, drawing a helpless cry from your throat.

“you gonna keep taking it like this?” he asks, not because he needs permission, but because he wants to hear the sound of you begging again. “or you gonna fall apart like a little brat who talked too much?” your fingers dig into the mattress. “go ahead,” he mutters, almost laughing. “prove me wrong.”

you let out a shaky breath, half a moan, half something broken. he sits back up, dragging you with him by your hips, making you meet each thrust head-on. he doesn’t slow. he doesn’t give. he stays steady and mean, dragging it out just enough to feel cruel. “you wanted to be in charge, right?” he says. “whatever you tell your little girlfriends.”

he leans in again, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back just slightly. “but you came crawling to me. let me put you on your knees. let me fuck you like this.” he pauses, breath heavy. “so which one is it, baby?” he murmurs. “you like being in charge? or you like being ruined?”

you try to answer, but all that comes out is a moan. his grip in your hair tightens just a little. “nah. use your words.”

you manage to whisper, barely audible: “i like it—like this.”

he smirks. “i know you do.”

he lets go of your hair, both hands dropping back to your waist as his movements grow rougher, rhythm sharper now, like he’s chasing something but refusing to let either of you reach it until he decides. you feel your body tighten again, another orgasm building fast, threatening to take over, but you remember what he said earlier. not until he says.

you try to hold it. try to breathe through it. but your legs are trembling, hands fisted in the sheets, and he’s relentless now. he notices. he always notices. “you close again?” he asks. “tsk tsk… already?”

you nod desperately. he chuckles under his breath, dark and satisfied. “don’t come yet.” you whine, legs shaking harder. “nope. not yet,” he says again, slower this time. “you want it? then beg.”

you gasp. “please, soobin—i—i need it—”

“yeah?” he says, still moving, still holding you right on that edge. “wanna cream my cock again?”

“yes—please—”

“beg harder, angel.”

“please—please, i need it, i need you—”

he groans deep in his throat, and finally, finally, his hands shift, his pace changes, more erratic now, more brutal, like he’s losing his own control right along with you. “come for me,” he growls. “right fucking now.”

and you do, loud and raw and completely undone. your whole body tightens and shakes beneath him, and he doesn’t stop. doesn’t give you time to catch your breath. he fucks you through it, eyes locked on the way you break for him. his name’s the only thing that comes out of your mouth.

he follows seconds later, a sharp curse escaping him as he buries in your cunt deep and stills, hands gripping so tight they’ll leave marks on your hips. he breathes through it, shaky and harsh, chest heaving, body pressed to yours like he needs the contact just as much as he needs the release.

the room is silent for a beat. just the sound of two people wrecked and catching up to themselves. finally, he leans down again, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and murmurs against your skin—

“you really don’t hate boys, do you?”

you let out a laugh, a real one. exhausted and a little horrified. “don’t start.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grins, turning his head toward you, as you switch your body, turning around to face him. “i feel like i just contributed something meaningful to your sexual awakening.”

“that’s… such a weird sentence to say out loud.”

“yeah, well. you’re the one who was like, ‘i’m not into guys’ and then came on my cock like, what? four times or something?”

you groan and cover your face with your hands. “i hate you.”

“you’re literally still shaking.”

“shut up.”

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. instead, he sits on the edge of the bed right next to you, and his fingers start tracing light, absent-minded patterns along your spine, featherlight, soothing, almost tender. it’s stupid, really, how soft he is now, after everything. after the way he touched you, took you, like he had no intention of being gentle.

and yet here he is, brushing his fingertips over your back like you might break. and you hate how much you like it. how easily it melts something inside you. because it’s not just the touch — it’s him. the contradiction of him. soobin, with his filthy mouth and his gentle hands.

“listen,” he says, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone, he stretches his arms behind his head, still catching his breath like nothing monumental just happened. and then, in that same too-casual voice, he says, “if you ever feel like exploring your… curiosity more, you know, about your preferences or whatever…” you glance over at him, one eyebrow raised. his expression doesn’t change, except for the little shrug he gives, half amused, half dead serious. “i’m available for educational purposes.”

you exhale, slow and disbelieving. “you’re such an asshole.”

“maybe.” he turns his head toward you, gaze dragging over your bare shoulders, his mouth twitching. “but look where it got me.”

you shake your head, but you don’t move away. you don’t slap his arm or tell him to shut up again. instead, you let your knee knock against his, your breath finally starting to feel like your own again. the air shifts between you, not heavy or awkward like you thought it might be. just… different. charged, maybe. softer around the edges. there’s a quiet comfort in it now that you hadn’t expected.

minutes pass, the movie already ended, the blood-streaked screen frozen in place. then your voice breaks through, low and almost thoughtful. “do you think they survived?”

soobin blinks. “who?”

“the girls,” you say, nodding toward the laptop. slumber party massacre, paused on a cheap shot of cleavage and red corn syrup. “from the movie.”

he tilts his head, gives it a second of actual thought. “nah. they’re all dead. definitely.”

you hum in agreement, a small smile playing at your lips. “yeah. figured.”

there’s another beat of silence, and then he says, “but you would’ve made it.” you look at him, unsure what he means. he keeps going. “you’ve got final girl energy. like… the type who doesn’t run upstairs. the type who waits. watches. stabs the killer with his own weapon.”

you laugh under your breath. “i feel like that’s a lot to project onto me.”

he shrugs. “or maybe you’d flirt with the murderer and confuse the shit out of him until he gave up.”

you grin. “there it is.”

he smirks. “i’d be the dumb hot one who dies first.”

“you are the dumb hot one.”

“thank you for seeing me.”

it shouldn’t feel like relief, this moment. but it does. like something that could’ve broken just… didn’t. like maybe it bent a little, stretched out of shape, but held. and somehow, you’re both still here—naked, slightly dazed, watching a bad slasher movie with blood on the screen and probably some still on your thighs.

you peek at him again. he’s looking at you like he never stopped. “you okay?” he asks, voice quieter now.

you nod. “yeah. i’m good.”

his hand finds your knee again, thumb brushing idly across the bone. it’s casual. but it’s not. you let your head fall onto his shoulder, stare at the screen without really seeing it. plastic knife. overexposed skin. predictable death.

and next to you, soobin. the same soobin who still uses three-in-one shampoo and forgets to charge his phone. the same boy who always lets you pick the movie. who saves you the middle seat on the couch. who carries your bag when you complain and never says anything about it. the same boy you trusted enough to call when your heart was broken. the same one you teased too much and touched too often and didn’t admit you wanted until now.

maybe you were never that into guys. but soobin never felt like just a guy. he felt like a constant, a question mark that stayed open too long. and now, with his hand on your leg and that dumb horror movie frozen in front of you, it finally clicks:

maybe you were never into boys. but you were always, always into him.