Chapter Text
Wonbin taps his nails against the edge of his desk, the soft click-click-click loud enough in the half-empty lecture hall to make the man two rows ahead turn and glare. He doesn’t bother acknowledging him. Why would he? He’s wearing off-brand sneakers and probably still uses his student discount at the campus café.
He feels eyes on his back again. He tries not to pay no mind to it but that guy has been staring at him since the semester started and it’s giving him the creeps.
“Seriously,” Wonbin mutters as he turns to Shotaro, shivering comically. “That guy at the back is staring again. He always does that. Who even sits in the very last row?”
Shotaro doesn’t look up right away. He finishes a little swirl on his page before glancing over his shoulder. His mouth curves into a knowing smirk. “You mean Chanyoung?”
“Obviously Chanyoung. I keep expecting him to pull out a notebook and start writing my name in it with little hearts made of blood.” Wonbin rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost painful.
Shotaro snorts, but there’s something amused and a little wicked in the way his eyes crinkle. “I think he’s chill, you’re just dramatic.
“Dramatic?!” Wonbin exclaims. “You don’t get it, Taro. There’s something… eerie about him.”
Shotaro laughs harder this time, probably thinking Wonbin’s suffering is the most amusing thing in the world.
Then, he leans in closer, dropping his voice like they’re sharing actual gossip instead of Wonbin just complaining for the third time this month.
“You know Sungchan hooked up with him once, right?”
Wonbin’s tapping stops. He turns his head slowly, arching an eyebrow. “Sungchan hyung? As in your Sungchan?”
“Yeah. End of last semester. Said Chanyoung didn’t talk much before, during, or after. Which tracks, I guess. But apparently, it got stupidly good when he actually got going. It was pretty funny seeing Sungchannie talk about it, you should’ve heard him.” Shotaro grins wider, clearly enjoying himself. “And his dick… He literally described it as ‘ruined me for anyone else’ levels of big. Apparently knew how to use it too.”
Wonbin stares at him for a beat, then lets out a short, derisive laugh that’s loud enough to echo off the back wall.
“Ew, no way,” Wonbin says as he waves a hand dismissively. “Sungchan hyung’s probably just romanticizing a mediocre lay.”
He says it with conviction, the same tone he uses when he tells the barista their oat milk is expired or when he informs his father’s driver that the car is two minutes late. Because that’s how the world works for Wonbin. Whatever comes out of his mouth, it becomes fact. Simple.
But inside, something shifts.
The words “big” and “knew how to use it” linger quietly, as much as he hates to admit it. He crosses his legs tighter under the desk, the soft fabric of his tailored slacks brushing against skin that suddenly feels too warm. It’s stupid.
Wonbin’s last hookup had been with some finance major who spent twenty minutes fumbling around like he was trying to find a lost contact lens, then came in under two minutes while muttering his apologies. The one before that had been even worse. Too rough in all the wrong ways, zero rhythm, left Wonbin sore and frustrated and pretending it was fine because admitting it sucked would mean admitting he’d chosen poorly. Again.
He’s had nothing but that. Clumsy hands, selfish mouths. Guys who see the way he looks—expensive clothes, sharp tongue, the kind of face that gets him whatever he wants—and assume he’ll take whatever he can get because to him, everything is replaceable.
Wonbin’s gaze flicks, just once, toward the back row.
Chanyoung is sitting exactly where he always does, long legs stretched out, one elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm. The glasses catch the light and his expression is unreadable.
Another ugly truth he kept buried was that his type had always been the quiet ones. He likes the idea that beneath the shy exterior, oversized hoodie, and cheap glasses, there was something unexpected. But like he’ll admit his type is nerds, hell no.
Wonbin looks away fast, cheeks prickling with something that feels dangerously close to interest.
“I saw that,” Shotaro pipes up, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Saw what?” Wonbin scoffs.
“You’re thinking about it too.” Shotaro concludes proudly.
“I’m not!” Wonbin denies. “Also, too? You’re so gross.”
“Hey, can’t pass up good dick. It’s rare nowadays.” Shotaro shrugs, grinning. “But if you get to him first, I won’t be mad.”
“You are literally disgusting,” Wonbin grunts, turning away to hide his slowly reddening face.
The professor’s voice cuts through the low hum of the lecture hall, dragging everyone’s attention to the front.
“Alright, listen up. For your mid-term project, you’ll be working in pairs. No exceptions, no swaps. I’ve already randomized it, so save the whining.”
Wonbin’s stomach drops a fraction.
He hates group work. He hates sharing credit, hates pretending to tolerate anyone who can’t keep up with his pace, and hates the way it forces him into close quarters with people who don’t understand personal space or basic hygiene. He crosses his arms over his chest, already drafting the mental complaint he’ll text his father’s assistant about if this turns out to be a disaster.
The professor starts reading off names from his tablet. Pairs click into place one after another—some relieved laughter, some theatrical groans. Wonbin doesn’t bother looking up until he hears it.
“Park Wonbin and Lee Chanyoung.”
For a second the words don’t even register. Then they do, and irritation flares hot behind his ribs.
Of course. Of course it’s him.
He doesn’t turn around right away. He can feel the eyes on him—half the class probably waiting for the bratty, rich kid who always has his way, to throw a fit. He surprises even himself when he stays quiet.
Shotaro elbows him lightly, smirking. “This is fate, Binnie, congrats.”
“Shut up,” Wonbin hisses, but there’s no real heat in it.
When the professor dismisses them eventually, Wonbin stays seated for a beat, letting the crowd thin out. He is not going to chase anyone down like some desperate freshman. If Chanyoung wants to survive this project, he can come to him.
But Chanyoung doesn’t move. He stays glued to his seat in the back row, shoulders hunched, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. From this distance, Wonbin can see the way he seems to fold in on itself. His hands are clenched around the edge of his desk, knuckles pale. He looks almost fragile, like if Wonbin so much as raises his voice, he might actually tear up or bolt for the nearest exit.
Wonbin sighs through his nose, slings his designer bag over one shoulder, and stands. Fine. He’ll handle it. He always does.
He walks down the aisle with measured steps, the heels of his boots clicking against the floor. When he reaches the last row, Chanyoung’s head snaps up, eyes wide behind the lenses. Up close, he’s even taller than he looks from a distance—broad shoulders, long legs folded awkwardly under the desk—but the way he shrinks back makes him seem smaller.
Wonbin stops in front of him, one hand on his hip, head tilted like he’s inspecting something mildly disappointing. “Well, guess we’re stuck together.”
“A-Ah, yeah.” Chanyoung nods, his eyes hidden by his hair and glasses. His voice, when it finally comes, is soft. Almost too soft, as Wonbin expected. “Sorry, did you want to do this with someone else?”
“I didn’t say that.” Wonbin scoffs. “I’m just expecting cooperation. The deadline is close so I’m not expecting half-assed work.”
“Oh, of course,” Chanyoung replies.
“Great. Are we meeting in your place or mine?”
Chanyoung’s ears go pink.
“Um… yours? If that’s… okay.”
Wonbin blinks. He expected Chanyoung to mumble something about not wanting to inconvenience him, to suggest that they do it in his place but he only looks up at Wonbin with shy, hopeful eyes.
His lips press into a thin line. Part of him wants to snap that his apartment is not a public library for charity cases, but the other part—the one that still remembers Shotaro’s stupid story from earlier—stays quiet. Whatever. His unit is probably way cleaner anyway.
“Whatever, my place then,” Wonbin says, already turning on his heel. “Are you on Insta?”
“Uh, yeah. antinitonny,” Chanyoung mumbles as if Wonbin can guess how in the world that’s spelled.
He takes his phone out of pocket and extends it to Chanyoung once he unlocks it. “Shut up. Just type it.”
Chanyoung scrambles as he takes the device carefully, as if touching it the wrong way would make it explode. He scrambles to type the username before handing it back to Wonbin. 39 followers, 39 following, with no profile picture. It almost makes him scoff. So typical.
“I’ll text you my address,” Wonbin says. “We'll meet at 3PM. Don’t be late and do not touch anything that isn’t project-related.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. He can feel Chanyoung’s eyes on his back the whole way out of the hall, that same quiet stare that used to feel creepy and now just feels heavy. Like something is pressing against the base of his spine, warm and curious and entirely unwelcome.
Much to his dismay, the thought is already: Chanyoung at his apartment, the two of them alone in a private space. Wonbin shivers. He tells himself it’s just annoyance and nothing else.
Quarter to 3PM, Wonbin is checking his reflection in the full-length mirror by the door one last time, tugging the hem of his lace long-sleeved top down just enough to show the delicate trim without looking like he’s trying too hard. The top is soft, cropped enough to hint at the smooth skin above his hips, and the baggy jeans sit low on his hips, oversized so they pool around his ankles in that effortless way.
He looks cute. He knows he looks cute. That’s the point—reminding himself he’s in control of his own space, his own image, even if some awkward nerd is about to invade it.
The doorbell chimes exactly on time. Of course it does. Wonbin rolls his eyes, already annoyed at the punctuality, and pads barefoot across the polished floor of his apartment.
He swings the door open and Chanyoung is standing there in the hallway, backpack slung over one shoulder, the same ugly gray hoodie and glasses as always. His shaggy hair falls into his eyes like he’s never heard of a hair tie in his life. He looks big. Taller than Wonbin remembers in the cramped lecture hall, shoulders filling the doorway, but the second their eyes meet he shrinks in on himself, ducking his head like a scolded puppy.
“Hello,” Chanyoung greets, voice barely above a whisper. Then his gaze drops, flicking over the lace sleeves. His ears go bright red. “Y-You look cute, Wonbin hyung…”
The words hit Wonbin instantly. Heat floods Wonbin’s cheeks—embarrassing, unwanted, stupid. Who just says that as a greeting? He feels the flush crawl all the way to the tips of his ears and hates it.
He covers it the only way he knows how. With venom.
“I know,” Wonbin scoffs, stepping aside just enough to let Chanyoung in but making sure the movement is pointedly reluctant. “What about you, huh? Did you lose a fight with a laundry basket on the way here?”
Chanyoung doesn’t argue. He just steps inside, careful not to brush against anything, and offers a small, nervous chuckle that sounds like it’s half apology. “Sorry, I didn’t think I had to dress up.”
Wonbin slams the door a little harder than necessary and stalks toward the living room, where his laptop and notes are already spread across the marble coffee table like a throne. “Ugh, I’m teasing. Mostly. Whatever, just sit.”
They settle on opposite sides of the low table. Wonbin cross-legged on the oversized sectional, Chanyoung folding his long legs awkwardly underneath him on the floor like he’s afraid to take up too much space. The project brief is open between them: some tedious marketing analysis and it was boring as hell, but at least it gives Wonbin something to focus on besides the way Chanyoung’s shoulders stretch the fabric of that hoodie when he leans forward to type.
He was doing great at first, really. Except now, Wonbin can’t stop looking.
Every few seconds his eyes drift back to Chanyoung’s face. His hair falling forward, curtained over the frames of those thick-framed glasses. Wonbin quietly wonders how the guy can see anything at all. Does he just squint through it? How does he even read the screen? It’s ridiculous. He’s clearly built like he could bench-press a car—broad chest, thick arms that the hoodie does nothing to hide. Instead, he sits there hunched and quiet, pushing the hair out of his eyes every thirty seconds.
Wonbin huffs and breaks the silence. “You know, if you brushed your hair once in a while, you might actually be able to see what you’re looking at.”
Chanyoung glances up, startled, then lets out another soft, nervous chuckle. “Ah, yeah. Sorry about that. I keep forgetting to get it cut. It’s fine though, I can see okay.”
“Yeah right,” Wonbin mutters, but there’s no real bite left in it this time. He’s too busy watching the way Chanyoung’s fingers move over the keyboard—surprisingly steady for someone who looks like he might melt under direct eye contact.
Wonbin leans back against the cushions, arms crossed. “And stop agreeing with everything I say like a yes-man. If you have an actual opinion, spit it out before I die of boredom.”
Chanyoung only chuckles softly again, like the insult is a joke they’re both in on. “Okay. I’ll try to speak up more, hyung.”
Wonbin catches himself staring at the way Chanyoung’s broad shoulders shift under the hoodie every time he reaches for a different tab, and something uncomfortably close to admiration curls in his chest.
A tiny thread of guilt washes over him when he sees Chanyoung lick his lips. He huffs, stands up without warning, and walks toward the open kitchen that flows off the living room.
“Stay there,” he snaps over his shoulder, voice sharp to cover the fact that he’s doing something nice. “I’m not letting you die of thirst while you do all the actual work like some unpaid intern. What do you want? Water? Juice? And before you ask, yes, I have those fancy sparkling ones.”
Chanyoung blinks up at him, eyes wide, then offers another chuckle. “Water’s fine, hyung. Thank you.”
Wonbin grabs two bottles from the fridge—sparkling for himself, still for Chanyoung because he’s not a monster—and pulls a bag of snacks from the pantry. He drops everything onto the coffee table then flops back down on his spot in the couch.
“Here. Eat something before your brain shuts off from all that typing.” He pushes the snacks closer with two fingers like they might bite him. “And while you’re at it, tell me more about yourself. I’m not sitting here in silence.”
Chanyoung’s ears go pink again. He sets his laptop aside carefully, uncaps the water, and takes a small sip like he’s buying time. “Um, there’s not much to tell, honestly. I was from New Jersey. Computer science major, but I took this marketing elective because my advisor said it’d look good on my transcript. I like reading and coding, I guess. Nothing exciting.”
“New Jersey? Like in the US?” Wonbin asks, frown deepening to hide his curiosity. “Can you speak English?”
“Yes,” Chanyoung replies in Korean.
“Well, show me!” Wonbin demands.
Chanyoung reaches up to scratch the nape of his neck, shyer than before. Then, in perfect English, he says, “This is pretty awkward. I don’t know how to talk to you without feeling shy.”
Wonbin is unable to stop the flush travelling down his neck, to his cheeks this time. What did Chanyoung expect? That he can’t understand English? His parents have enrolled him in too many classes for him not to pick anything up.
“You’re the one making it awkward, weirdo,” Wonbin says in Korean.
Chanyoung’s eyes widen. “Hyung, you can understand me?”
“Obviously!” Wonbin rolls his eyes, but there’s less bite in it now. “My turn.”
“Y-You don’t have to,” Chanyoung says.
“What, you don’t want to hear it?”
“No! I… just don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you or anything.”
“Stop.” Wonbin groans. “I’m not heartless. I’m just doing it as an exchange since you told me something about yourself.”
“If you’re sure then,” Chanyoung chirps.
“I am.” Wonbin huffs before tapping his chin with a finger as he thinks. “Hm, three facts. Well, I hate group projects because people always drag me down, I play guitar and I have a pet puppy back at home. Like, in our estate.”
Chanyoung’s mouth curves into a tiny, genuine smile behind the rim of his glass. “A-Ah, I know.”
Wonbin freezes. “Huh? What do you mean, you know?”
Chanyoung’s eyes turn into saucers for a split second, as if he realized he said too much. Then he ducks his head, pushing his hair out of his face with one big hand. The nervous chuckle is back, light and easy, like it’s nothing. “I mean… I know you play guitar. A friend mentioned it once.” He clears his throat and gestures back to the laptop screen. “Anyway, back to this—look at the trend line on slide four. If we adjust the axis scale here, it lines up better with the survey data you pulled earlier. See? Makes the whole section flow smoother.”
Wonbin stares at him for another beat, the flush from earlier threatening to creep back up his neck.
Chanyoung’s expression is perfectly innocent now, all shy focus on the project again, as if he didn’t just casually admit to knowing random details about Wonbin’s life. But he lets it slide for now.
Instead, he mutters, “Whatever. Fix it then, if you’re so smart.”
It’s annoying how competent Chanyoung is. What’s even more annoying is how Wonbin can’t stop noticing him.
He needs to knock him off balance. Just a little. Tease him until he squirms because it’ll be funny.
After ten more minutes of sitting on his ass as Chanyoung does all the work, he gets restless. Then, almost as if a light bulb appears on top of his head, his face lights up.
“You wanna know something funny that I heard?”
Chanyoung turns to look at him. “Yes?”
Wonbin leans in a fraction, eyes sparkling with fake innocence. “Shotaro told me Sungchan hyung hooked up with you last semester. Can you imagine? I told him it had to be a lie. I mean, no offense but Sungchan hyung is Sungchan hyung and you’re… you.”
He waits for it—the blush, the stammering, the way Chanyoung’s cheeks would probably turn scarlet and he’d hide behind that ridiculous hair. That’s how this is supposed to go.
But Chanyoung just blinks once, then gives a small nod like they’re discussing the weather. “Oh, I remember Sungchan hyung. He was really nice.”
Nice. Wonbin’s smile falters.
“Nice?” He echoes, voice pitching up a little higher than he means it to. “That’s it?”
Chanyoung shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah. We talked a bit before. He was easy to be around and we’re still friends now.”
No, no. That isn’t how it was supposed to play out. He was supposed to watch Chanyoung crumble, not sit there looking unbothered. It throws him off more than he wants to admit.
“Well,” He presses, sharper now. “He also said you’ve got a big dick. Like, stupidly big. And that you ruined him for other guys or whatever. Is that part real too, or was Sungchan hyung just exaggerating?”
There it is—the flush. It colors the tips of Chanyoung’s ears and the high points of his cheeks. He ducks his head immediately, hair falling forward to hide most of it, but Wonbin catches the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the laptop.
"That's—" Chanyoung clears his throat, voice still soft but a touch firmer than before. “I don't think that's relevant, hyung… We should probably just focus on the project."
"Don't change the subject now, you—"
"You said you wanted this finished quickly, right?”
Wonbin badly wants to push. He can feel the words bubbling up—another jab, another question, something to make that flush deepen and see how far he can take it before he actually reacts but instead, he snaps his mouth shut.
“You’re boring,” Wonbin mumbles.
Chanyoung only chuckles, a light, warm sound. Wonbin has to ignore the way his heart twists upon hearing it.
A week later, Wonbin finds himself with Shotaro again.
He slouches against the sun-warmed brick wall outside the business building, scrolling through his phone with one thumb while Shotaro bounces on his heels beside him like an overexcited puppy.
The week passed in a blur of late-night texts about slide decks and in-person sessions at his unit that somehow never feel as annoying as they should. Chanyoung still shows up in the same threadbare hoodie and glasses, still speaks in that same hesitant voice, but the project is actually coming together. More than that—Wonbin has caught himself waiting for his quiet chuckle when he snaps at him, or the way Chanyoung’s broad frame relaxes when they’re alone in his living room.
Shotaro nudges him with an elbow. “So? How’s it going with Chanyoung? You two basically married now or what?”
Wonbin rolls his eyes and ignores the quiet flutter of his heart at Shotaro’s words. “He’s not too bad, I guess. He’s been doing most of the work so maybe I should give him credit. Also, he surprisingly hasn’t done anything to piss me off like I expected him to.”
“Aw, you’re smitten, look at you!” Shotaro sniffles teasingly.
“I can’t stand you.” Wonbin groans.
Shotaro raises his hands in mock defeat. “Hey, I didn’t say anything bad. I think you two would look cute together. You can only hope you've finally found someone who won't annoy you to death.”
Ugh. He doesn't even want to think about that right now.
“Speaking of annoying me to death,” Wonbin huffs before he pauses, then the real irritation spills out before he can stop it. “I heard people talking about him earlier. It was so weird.”
“Oh?” Shotaro leans in closer, cupping an ear over his ear for dramatic effect.
“Someone was talking about his stupid dick in the café this morning. Again. Seriously, is it that big? It can’t be, right?”
“You seem interested.” Shotaro cackles.
“This is your goddamn fault,” Wonbin bemoans, cheeks warming despite himself. “It’s not fair that everyone knows except me.”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not desperate!”
“Binnie, I’m serious. He seems pretty chill about that kinda stuff. You should replace that stick up your ass with his dick. Or is sleeping with someone like him so above the great Park Wonbin?”
Any further argument dies in Wonbin's throat, replaced by the hot, undeniable realization that he was already wondering what that “stupid big dick” would feel like. His denial is nothing but a flimsy shield for his craving to be taken down a peg by… He doesn’t even want to say it.
And speak of the devil.
Chanyoung finally appears. Wonbin lifts a hand and calls, “Chanyoungie, over here!” and watches as his awkwardness shifts into something firmer. He straightens a little, legs carrying him over with surprising speed. They do that now—wait for each other to work on the project, sometimes it’s Wonbin, most of the time it’s Chanyoung.
He looks like a puppy, Wonbin thinks as Chanyoung reaches them, a small grin on his face.
“Hi, Wonbin hyung. Shotaro hyung,” Chanyoung greets softly.
“Hey, Chanyoung! How’s it going with the project?” Shotaro asks gleefully.
“It’s been great.” Chanyoung smiles. “Wonbin hyung has been really helpful.”
Wonbin flushes. He wants to argue that Chanyoung was doing the hard-carrying but he chooses to revel in the praise.
“Has he?” Shotaro smirks, eyes flying over to Wonbin. “Tell me if he’s giving you a hard time, yeah? I’ll punish him myself.”
Wonbin rolls his eyes before he looks back at Chanyoung. His friendly grin falters for half a second and something flickers in his eyes before he shakes his head, fixing his expression. “It’s fine. He’s really good.”
Wonbin flushes again, embarrassingly so. Then he makes a shooing gesture at Shotaro. “Go already. We have a project to work on and you're being distracting.”
Shotaro laughs louder, putting his hands up in defeat, letting Wonbin push him out. “Alright, alright, geez. Bye, Chanyoung!”
When Shotaro is finally gone, the younger man looks back at him with an expectant grin. Wonbin’s stomach does a stupid little flip and as always, he covers it with a huff. He shoves his bag against Chanyoung’s chest. “Carry this for me, Chanyoungie. And don’t drop it, it’s limited edition.”
Chanyoung takes the bag wordlessly and lets Wonbin lead the way.
By the time they’re inside his condominium once again, he can’t even pretend to care about the project anymore. Not with what he overheard, not with his conversation with Shotaro.
He drops onto the sectional, top riding up again on purpose this time, and kicks his legs out dramatically.
“Ugh, you know what, I changed my mind,” Wonbin grunts. “Forget the slides for today.”
Chanyoung freezes, already half-way from taking his laptop out of his backpack. He makes an embarrassed little sound at the back of his throat before saying, “O-Oh, should I leave then?”
“You think I drove you all the way here just to kick you out?” Wonbin scoffs.
“W-Well, I—I don’t know, maybe you’d do it to mess with me.”
“Sit down, Chanyoung.”
Chanyoung obeys, lowering himself to the floor across him.
Wonbin grunts. “I can’t care less about the project right now. Everyone keeps talking about your stupid dick like it’s an urban myth and I hate not being in on the gossip.”
Chanyoung pushes the shaggy hair out of his eyes, glasses catching the light. His expression is neutral, almost unreadable—soft-spoken as ever, no smirk, no panic, just quiet observation. “This again? You seem curious, hyung.”
The words land flat. No teasing lilt. No blush this time. Just calm, steady fact, like he’s stating the color of the sky.
Something in Wonbin snaps.
“Of course I’m curious!” He explodes, sitting up straighter, cheeks burning as the confession tumbles out. “I want to know what it feels like. I’ve had nothing but terrible sex with guys who don’t know what they’re doing, and now everybody’s whispering about how you’re apparently some kind of sex god and you just sit there like it’s nothing? I hate it. I want to know!”
His confession hangs in the air like smoke, thick and impossible to take back. His cheeks are burning, the sleeves of the top suddenly too tight around his wrists, and he wants to snatch the words out of the space between them and shove them down his own throat.
He’s not desperate. He’s not. He’s Park Wonbin—he gets what he wants, on his terms, and this is just curiosity. Purely academic.
Chanyoung is still sitting there on the floor across from him, long legs folded, glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of the apartment. His expression hasn’t changed much—still that soft, unreadable calm—but his eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide behind the lenses. He tilts his head, shaggy hair falling forward, and asks the million dollar question.
“Do you want to know how it feels, hyung? With me?”
Wonbin’s stomach flips hard. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, lifting his chin like he’s still the one calling the shots.
“Well, it’s not like I’m gagging for it,” he snaps, still defensive, the words tumbling out too fast. “I’m just curious. That’s all. Don’t make it weird.”
Chanyoung’s mouth curves a little and then he chuckles. “Of course.”
That does something dangerous to Wonbin’s insides. He leans forward on his knees and swats at Chanyoung’s chest with the back of his hand, like a cat batting at a much bigger, much too-patient puppy. The muscle under the hoodie is solid, warm, and the contact sends a spark up his arm. “You’re making it weird already.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Chanyoung replies with a grin. “Right now?”
Wonbin hates how conversational he sounds. “Obviously!”
“We should head to your room, then.” Chanyoung hums lowly.
“What? Can’t you fuck me here?” Wonbin looks down at the sectional. It’s soft and big enough for the two of them, after all.
“I can,” Chanyoung agrees. “But I thought you wanted to be taken care of. Doing it on a bed is better.”
Dammit.
“Fine, god,” Wonbin taps Chanyoung’s shoulder once and gets up on shaky feet. “Don’t do anything weird inside.”
Chanyoung smiles wider but there’s that unreadable glint in his eyes again, the same one that makes Wonbin shiver. “Wouldn’t dream of it, hyung.”
Wonbin leads the way toward his bedroom, his legs still trembling lightly. As he swings the door open, he catches Chanyoung’s eyes sweeping slowly across the room, a concentrated scrutiny, taking in the high ceilings, expensive furniture, and finally, his bed—as if he’s drinking in every detail.
The silent observation doesn’t annoy him as much as it should have; instead, it makes the heat in his cheeks deepen with a nervous, yet excited, kind of anticipation. Wonbin doesn’t wait for a comment, he only crawls on his king-sized bed, giving Chanyoung a show as he sways his hips before finally settling.
They're really doing this.
Chanyoung follows, shifting forward, knees sinking into the space between Wonbin’s spread thighs. The movement is careful but there’s no hesitation now. He reaches behind his neck and tugs the hoodie off in one smooth pull, the fabric whispering over his head before it’s tossed aside onto the floor.
Wonbin’s jaw actually drops.
Holy fuck.
Underneath is nothing like the shapeless nerd he’s been staring at for weeks. Chanyoung’s torso is sculpted—broad chest tapering to a narrow waist, abs carved in clean, defined lines that flex when he breathes, shoulders rounded with muscle that speaks of quiet, consistent gym time even he didn’t see coming. His arms are thick, veins standing out faintly along the forearms, biceps curving like they could pin Wonbin down without effort. The glasses and the hair and the perpetual slouch had hidden all of it so well that Wonbin feels personally betrayed.
“You’ve been hiding that?” Wonbin blurts, voice cracking with pure annoyance. “All this time you’ve been walking around campus looking like a sad thrift-store mannequin and you’re built like… like that? What the hell?! I’ve been wasting my time thinking you were just some lanky—”
He doesn’t get to finish the complaint. Chanyoung drops down without warning, one big hand bracing beside Wonbin’s head, the other sliding up his lace-covered side. His mouth hovers for half a second, breath warm, then he leans in for a kiss—soft at first, almost sweet, like he’s still asking permission.
Wonbin turns his face away on instinct, cheek pressing into the cushion.
He wasn’t expecting that. Not the kiss. Not the casual intimacy of it. His heart is hammering too hard, too fast, and the bratty part of him wants to stay in control, wants to dictate every single step like he always does.
Chanyoung freezes. His dark hair still falls into his eyes, but Wonbin can see the flicker of hurt flash across his face anyway. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It makes something in Wonbin’s chest twist in the worst way.
“You’re like a goddamn puppy,” Wonbin mutters, cheeks burning as he turns back. “Just—Just do it properly.”
Chanyoung lights up and doesn’t hesitate this time.
The kiss crashes back in filthy and deep, nothing like the innocent brush Wonbin had braced for. Chanyoung’s mouth opens hot and wet against his, tongue sliding in without preamble, licking into him like he’s starving for it. It’s messy, possessive, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for thoughts. Chanyoung’s thick and demanding tongue is fucking into Wonbin’s mouth with slow, deliberate strokes that mimic something far dirtier. He tilts his head, angles deeper, sucking on Wonbin’s tongue before pushing back in again, one big hand cupping the back of his neck to hold him right where he wants him.
Wonbin whimpers.
The sound slips out high and broken, straight from his throat, and it mortifies him even as heat floods between his spread thighs. His brain short-circuits—there’s nothing left but the wet slide of Chanyoung’s tongue claiming his mouth and the low rumble vibrating from his chest when he swallows down another whimper. Wonbin’s hands fly up instinctively, fisting into the front of Chanyoung’s hoodie, but he doesn’t push away. He can’t. It feels too good, too overwhelming, like every clumsy kiss he’s ever had is being erased in real time.
When Chanyoung finally pulls back, Wonbin is dizzy. His lips are slick and swollen, chest heaving, eyes glassy as he stares up at the ceiling for a second trying to remember how breathing works. The room feels too warm. His thighs are trembling where they bracket Chanyoung’s hips.
Chanyoung looks down at him, hair even messier now, glasses fogged at the edges, but his voice is still that soft, steady murmur. “You don’t have to do anything, hyung,” he coos, gentle and low, like he’s soothing a startled cat. His fingers find the hem of Wonbin’s lace top and start easing it upward, slow enough that Wonbin could stop him if he wanted. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you, okay?”
Wonbin opens his mouth to snap—something about how he’s still in charge, how he doesn’t need coddling—but the words tangle when Chanyoung’s palms skim up his bare sides, thumbs brushing the underside of his ribs. The touch is reverent, patient, as if Chanyoung has all the time in the world to unwrap him.
“Chanyoungie—” Wonbin tries, voice hoarse.
“Shhh. I’ve got you,” Chanyoung murmurs again, leaning in to press a softer kiss to the corner of Wonbin’s jaw, then another to the flushed skin just below his ear. His hands keep moving, peeling his top off inch by inch, cooing praises under his breath the whole time. “So pretty like this. So good for me already. You don’t need to fight it. Let me handle everything.”
Wonbin’s head spins harder. He’s supposed to be directing this. He’s supposed to be the one calling the shots. But Chanyoung’s voice is wrapping around him like silk, and those big hands are already sliding the fabric over his head, exposing more skin, and for once Wonbin can’t find the sharp words to stop him.
He doesn’t even realize when Chanyoung sits back on his heels. Wonbin watches, still reeling, as those big, steady hands drop to the waistband of his own sweatpants. He hooks his thumbs in and shoves them down in one easy motion, kicking them off along with his boxers until he’s completely bare between Wonbin’s spread thighs.
Wonbin’s eyes go wide.
The sight is obscene. Thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking, curving up toward Chanyoung’s sculpted abs like it’s got a mind of its own. Well. Shit. Guess everyone wasn’t lying.
Chanyoung leans forward again, one hand braced beside Wonbin’s head, the other guiding that massive length so the hot, velvety underside drags slowly along the smooth skin of Wonbin’s inner thigh. The friction is filthy, the weight of it pressing down, smearing a thin trail of precum across his leg.
“There’s no way that’ll fit,” Wonbin blurts, voice cracking halfway. His hips twitch despite himself, chasing the heat before he can stop it. “You’re delusional if you think that’s going inside me. I’m not some cheap toy you can just—”
“I’ll go slow until it does, hyung,” Chanyoung murmurs, voice low and velvet-soft. He rocks his hips again, letting the thick head nudge teasingly against the crease where thigh meets groin.
The words shouldn’t sound that hot. They shouldn’t make his pussy throb and slick up even more, shouldn’t make heat flood his cheeks until he feels like he’s burning. He refuses to admit it out loud, so he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Chanyoung doesn’t wait for permission. His hands slide down to the waistband of Wonbin’s jeans, fingers deft despite the slight tremble of nerves that still lingers in the way he glances up for confirmation. He pops the button, drags the zipper down, and peels the denim off inch by inch, taking the underwear with it.
Cool air hits Wonbin’s bare skin—his slick, flushed pussy exposed completely now, thighs trembling where they’re spread wide around Chanyoung’s hips.
Then, Chanyoung settles lower between his legs, broad shoulders pushing Wonbin’s knees further apart, shaggy hair brushing the insides of his thighs. He looks up through the mess of bangs and those fogged glasses, eyes dark and hungry but still so stupidly soft.
“What are you doing?” Wonbin demands, trying to sound imperious and failing when his voice wavers. He props himself up on his elbows, a frown on his face. “We’re not—I thought you were going to get inside me—”
“I want to eat this pretty pussy out first,” Chanyoung says, simple and earnest, like he’s stating a fact about the weather. His breath ghosts hot over Wonbin’s folds, making him clench involuntarily. “You deserve it, hyung. You’ve been so good for me today—letting me in, trusting me with this. I want to make our first time special. Wanna taste how sweet you are for me.”
Wonbin’s brain stutters. Good? Him? He’s been nothing but a snappy little brat the entire time—insulting Chanyoung’s clothes, his hair, his everything—and yet this idiot is calling him good like it’s obvious.
It doesn’t make sense. It makes his chest feel too tight and his thighs shake harder.
“Chanyoungie, I’m not—” he starts, but the protest dies the second Chanyoung’s tongue drags a long, slow stripe up the center of his pussy.
The moan that rips out of him is humiliatingly loud. Chanyoung licks into him like he’s savoring something sweet and expensive, tongue flat and broad, lapping at the slick that’s already dripping down his folds. He moans into it. Low, appreciative, the vibration shooting straight to Wonbin’s clit, and then seals his mouth over the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently while his tongue flicks and circles.
Wonbin’s elbows give out. He collapses back against the cushions with a broken whimper, one hand flying down to fist in Chanyoung’s shaggy hair before he can think better of it. “Fuck—Wait, Chanyoung—Oh my god—”
He doesn’t argue after that. He can’t.
Every retort melts under the wet heat of Chanyoung’s mouth, the way his tongue pushes inside him like he’s trying to map every inch, the soft little hums of pleasure Chanyoung keeps making like Wonbin’s cunt is the best thing he’s ever tasted. His hips buck up on their own, chasing the pleasure, and Chanyoung just takes it; big hands spreading his thighs wider, holding him open so he can devour him properly.
Wonbin’s head spins. He’s supposed to be in charge. But with Chanyoung’s tongue fucking into his pussy and those quiet, filthy praises mumbled against his slick skin, all he can do is moan and take it, the denial crumbling faster than he can rebuild it.
Wonbin’s back arches hard off the cushions, a broken moan tearing from his throat as Chanyoung’s tongue curls inside him again, slow and filthy and relentless. His thighs are shaking uncontrollably around those broad shoulders, slick dripping down his ass, and the pleasure is so sharp it’s almost too much.
He’s been reduced to whimpers and gasps for what feels like hours, one hand still fisted tight in Chanyoung’s disheveled hair like it’ll anchor him.
He can’t take it anymore.
“Chanyoung—Fuck, enough,” Wonbin gasps out. “I’m not waiting for you to finish your little tasting menu. Get up here and put that dick inside me before I lose my mind.”
Chanyoung pulls back with a wet sound that should be embarrassing but only makes Wonbin clench harder. His lips are shiny with slick, glasses fogged beyond saving, chest heaving under that tight t-shirt as he sits up between Wonbin’s spread thighs. He looks breathless, pupils blown wide, the flush high on his cheeks making him look almost innocent despite the obscene bulge still curving hard against his stomach.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, voice soft and shaky. “C-Can I really do that, hyung?”
Wonbin stares up at him, chest still rising and falling fast, and the thought hits him like a slap; such an oversized puppy. All that muscle and height and intensity, and here he is with his big eyes and a nervous little tilt to his head, asking for permission like he’s afraid Wonbin might actually say no after begging for it.
“Did I not just say it?” Wonbin snaps, cheeks burning as he spreads his legs wider in invitation. His eyes drop down to Chanyoung’s cock again. “But—Slowly. I swear if you split me in half I’ll make you regret it.”
Chanyoung’s breath hitches, but he nods, that shy determination settling over his face again. He shifts forward on his knees, one big hand wrapping around the thick base of his cock to line up.
The blunt, leaking head nudges against Wonbin’s slick entrance, hot and heavy, and Wonbin’s stomach tightens in anticipation.
Chanyoung leans down, caging him in with those sculpted arms, careful not to crush him. He pushes in. Slow, so fucking slow—inch by thick inch, stretching Wonbin open with a burn that borders on perfect. His free hand cups the back of his thigh, holding him open, thumb stroking soothing circles over the trembling skin as if he’s handling something fragile and priceless.
“Fuck,” Chanyoung breathes. “You’re so pretty like this. So tight and wet for me already, taking me so well.”
It’s like a switch, how quickly he settles into this more dominant role Wonbin would have never expected. He rocks forward another careful inch, eyes fluttering half-shut behind the glasses. “So cute, hyung. You have no idea how perfect you look right now.”
Wonbin’s head falls back, a choked sob slipping out as another thick inch sinks in. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch; the way his pussy flutters and clenches around the invasion like it’s trying to pull Chanyoung deeper.
It feels too good, too full, too much all at once, and the gentle praise is making it worse. He tries to bite back the whimper, but it escapes anyway, high and shaky.
“Shut up—Hah—You’re not supposed to… talk like that,” Wonbin manages, but the words dissolve into another teary moan when Chanyoung bottoms out with a soft groan, hips flush against him, so deep he swears he can feel it in his stomach.
His lashes are wet, tears slipping down the sides of his face as pleasure crashes through him in waves. He’s crying—actually crying—over some nerd’s dick, and he can’t even find the energy to be mad about it because it feels so fucking right.
Chanyoung stills completely once he’s buried to the hilt, holding perfectly still except for the way his thumb keeps stroking Wonbin’s thigh and the soft, shaky kisses he presses to the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“You’re doing so good,” Chanyoung murmurs, like he’s the one in control and Wonbin isn’t falling apart underneath him. Maybe that’s exactly what’s happening right now. “So pretty when you cry for me like this. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Wonbin’s only response is another broken sob, hips twitching helplessly as his body adjusts, pleasure sparking white-hot behind his eyes. He’s never felt this full, this wanted, this taken care of—and the denial in his chest is cracking wider with every word Chanyoung breathes against his skin.
And then.
Wonbin’s breath stutters when Chanyoung finally starts to move.
It’s slow at first, just shallow rolls of those sculpted hips, pulling out halfway and easing back in like he’s afraid the man under him might shatter. Every drag of that thick cock against his walls sends sparks shooting up his spine, and the stretch is so perfect that Wonbin’s eyes flutter shut on another teary moan.
“Fuck—Chanyoungie—”
“Look at you,” Chanyoung murmurs right against his ear, voice deep and steady even while his own breathing is ragged. He keeps one hand anchored on Wonbin’s thigh, spreading him wider, the other braced beside his head so he can watch every flicker across Wonbin’s face. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. So pretty when you clench around me. So wet. You feel incredible.”
Wonbin tries to say something about not needing the commentary but it comes out as a broken whine instead. His nails dig into Chanyoung’s shoulders, legs locking tighter around his waist as the pace picks up, still careful but deeper now, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the apartment.
Chanyoung doesn’t stop praising him. Not for a second.
“That’s it… Just like that. You’re so good for me. Letting me fuck this pretty pussy open. You’re squeezing me so tight—God, you’re perfect.” Chanyoung’s voice drops lower, almost reverent as he thumbs at Wonbin’s clit. “Come on, let go. I want to feel you come on my cock. It’s your first time, isn’t it? Let me feel all of you, baby.”
The words hit somewhere deep and humiliating and so fucking hot that Wonbin’s whole body seizes.
The orgasm crashes over him without warning—sharp, blinding, nothing like the weak, unsatisfying little peaks he’s faked with other guys.
His back bows off the cushions, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as his pussy clamps down hard, pulsing around Chanyoung’s length in waves that make his vision spark white. Tears spill freely down his temples. His thighs tremble violently and he’s pretty sure he sobs Chanyoung’s name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
Chanyoung fucks him through every second of it, slow and deep, murmuring praise against his sweat-damp skin. “There you go. There’s my good boy. So beautiful. I’m so proud of you, hyung.”
When the last aftershock finally ebbs, Wonbin goes limp, chest heaving, brain floating somewhere outside his body. Chanyoung stays buried inside him for a long moment, just breathing with him, pressing soft kisses to his flushed cheeks and the corner of his mouth. Then he carefully pulls out and disappears for half a minute.
He comes back with a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, moving as if he already owns the place and starts cleaning between Wonbin’s thighs with the same quiet care, wiping away the mess of slick and come without a single awkward fumble.
Wonbin watches him through half-lidded eyes, still dazed, and the words slip out before he can stop them.
“Where has your dick been all this time…”
Chanyoung chuckles, ears going bright red. The confident, filthy-mouthed Chanyoung from two minutes ago vanishes instantly, replaced by the same dorky, socially awkward nerd who sat in the back row of lectures.
“Um… I don’t know what to say to that. Sorry.”
Wonbin rolls his eyes. He’s still naked and boneless on his own bed, pussy still fluttering from the best orgasm of his life, and this idiot is apologizing.
“Y’know what? I’ve promoted you.” He reaches out, grabs Chanyoung by the shoulders and tugs him down onto the cushions beside him. “Come cuddle me. You’re going to be my personal dildo from now on.”
“Your personal dildo?” Chanyoung echoes, all wide-eyed and confused behind his glasses, body stiff as he lets himself be pulled into Wonbin’s space. His big hand hovers uncertainly over Wonbin’s waist, not quite touching.
Wonbin groans, exasperated, and shoves at Chanyoung’s chest until the taller man is lying on his back so Wonbin can drape himself over him like a spoiled cat. “God, you’re dense. It means we’re going to be fuck buddies now. You fuck me whenever I want—properly, like that—and I let you. Simple.” He pauses, then adds with all the pompous arrogance he can muster while still flushed and marked-up. “If you’re okay with it. Though it’s a privilege to even just be in a room with me, so you should probably be thanking your lucky stars right now.”
He buries his face in Chanyoung’s neck like he didn’t just admit he wants this again, and again, and again. His cheeks burn hotter than he’ll ever confess. Chanyoung’s heart is hammering under his ear, but the arms that finally wrap around him are warm and careful, like he’s still afraid of moving too fast.
Chanyoung’s hand rubs slow circles on his bare back, hesitant at first, then bolder when Wonbin doesn’t snap at him. Then, soft as always, he clears his throat.
“Then, don’t you think we should lay some ground rules?”
“For what?” Wonbin lifts his head just enough to squint at him, hair falling messily over one eye. “What more is there to negotiate?”
“Boundaries? Like, uh, what if you don’t like me kissing you? Or holding you after? Or, I don’t know. I just don’t want to assume anything.” Chanyoung suggests.
Wonbin stares at him for a beat, then lets out a short laugh that’s more scoff than anything. “Why would I not like that?” He pokes Chanyoung’s chest with a finger, right over the spot where his heart is still racing. “My only rule is that you should be treating me like a princess. All the time. No half-assed stuff. If I let you fuck me, you better act like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to your sad little life.”
Chanyoung blinks, stunned. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again like he’s waiting for the catch.
Wonbin can practically see the gears turning behind those fogged glasses, probably expecting the usual cold, transactional bullshit most people assume from someone like him. Strict limits. Sex only. No feelings, no cuddles, no nothing. The kind of arrangement that leaves everyone equally unsatisfied but polite.
But Wonbin just rolls his eyes and drops his head back down, nuzzling into the crook of Chanyoung’s neck. “What? You thought I was gonna make you sign a contract with bullet points or something? Please.”
“Are you sure?” Chanyoung’s voice is small, hopeful, the dorky hesitation bleeding through every syllable. His arms tighten around Wonbin’s waist, careful but clearly itching to pull him closer. “I can get, uh… A little clingy. Sometimes. If that’s okay.”
“Shut up and give me more cuddles, Chanyoungie. You’re the one who just made me cum so hard I was shaking. The least you can do is act like my personal heater now.” Wonbin grabs one of those thick arms and drapes it more firmly across his back, wiggling until their bodies are pressed together from chest to thigh. “There. Better. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Chanyoung lets out a soft, relieved breath that sounds suspiciously like a happy little laugh. Then he nuzzles in, nose brushing along Wonbin’s temple, lips pressing a shy kiss to his hairline, the strands of his hair tickling Wonbin’s cheek. His whole body relaxes under him, big frame curling protectively around Wonbin’s smaller one like he’s been waiting years to do exactly this.
Wonbin feels the way Chanyoung’s heart skips, the way those strong arms squeeze him closer, and something warm and stupid flutters low in his stomach. He tells himself it’s just post-orgasm haze.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Instead, he mutters against Chanyoung’s collarbone, voice muffled. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today. Most people don’t even get to breathe the same air as me, let alone cuddle after.”
Chanyoung just hums, soft and content, and nuzzles in deeper, like he’s memorizing the feel of Wonbin in his arms.
Wonbin pretends not to notice how happy the idiot looks.