#Rendering Service | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoongihan · 1 month ago

Text

Services Rendered - BC - 1/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy,

word count: ~ 10k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, fingering (fem rec); a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, use of 'baby' and 'yeonin' (don't ask, just writing him required all the endearments), the most ethical escort service ever; a little alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk., some discussion of insecurities on both chris's and reader's parts. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: vaguely based on the film Good Luck to You, Leo Grande. decided this couldn't be a one-shot they way it was going. so since the time frame is a weekend, they'll be another part for the second day, then perhaps an epilogue. thank you for the interest on the teaser. this is probably the softest sex worker au known to man.

The knock on the door startles you. It shouldn’t. You’ve known that he’ll be showing up at seven pm since you received the confirmation email; after the survey, the video interview, and the background check.

You look down at yourself at the knock, an immediate and instinctual check. There isn’t anything you can do in two seconds to change how you look, who you are; but the quick look is years and years of the world reminding you that you are not what the world wants. Which sometimes you can pride yourself on. But today, you can’t muster up that bravado.

But it’s been seconds since the first knock, so you hurry as the second rap sounds against the wood. You don’t look through the peephole because you’ll lose your nerve, and unless there are serious red flags with the person on the other side of the door, you are doing this.

It’s past time after all.

You open the door, smile on your face even if it’s the fakest you’ve ever pasted on.

The answering smile is far more sincere and confident than yours. And includes dimples.

Oh god, they’d taken you seriously about often liking younger men.

“Hi?” He starts when you don’t utter a word, shell-shocked. He says your name with a similar question mark at the end.

“You have a beautiful smile.” You’re frozen, eyes sweeping up and down, taking in his casual air, amplified by the soft cardigan, shirt, and nice jeans. Then you actually hear what you’ve just said. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Um, please come in…Christopher?”

The confirmation email hadn’t given you a lot of details, but it did have his name.

“Thank you and Chris is fine.” He’s still smiling as he walks in and you close the door behind. You watch him scan the room, taking in the couch, the view of the city beyond it. It’s the nicest hotel you’ve ever stayed in, but neutral territory had been recommended. “This is stunning.”

Your brain kicks back in, your eyes admiring the picture he made against the city lights. “You’re…your accent…Australian.”

He turns from taking in that spectacular view, his grin wider. “Good ear.” He sets his two bags, one messenger and one overnight (the implications of that second one sends another wave of anxiety through you) on the couch before seeing the two wine glasses on the coffee table. “Will you think less of me if I don’t drink?”

“Oh. No, not at all.” Your hands are clasped in front of you, like a caricature of an anxious woman. “There’s sodas in the minibar. Would you prefer me not to drink as well?”

He stands between the sofa and the window, eyes on you. “Will it help you relax?” He’s in profile, and you gaze at him, the strong nose, chin, and as you let your eyes travel down, the absolutely gorgeous ass.

You didn’t even know you had opinions about mens’ asses until this very moment.

You cough a laugh, focusing back on his question. “Obvious huh?”

“It’s pointless of me to say not to be nervous, but I hope you know that you’re safe.”

You take a deep breath, walking over to the minibar and searching for two bottles of water. You force yourself to walk over to him, offering him one.

“I know your company is reputable.”

He takes the water bottle from you, letting his fingers lightly touch yours. It’s nothing more than that, but you suspect it’s intentional.

“It is. You did your research.” He tilts his head to the side, endearingly like he’s going to see you differently by just that change of angle. “Four months, wasn’t it?”

“You watched the interview?”

“Of course I did.”

If one of your hands wasn’t still holding a now sweating bottle of water, you would cover your face in embarrassment. You resist the impulse, just barely.

“Do you think I’d come here without doing my own research?” He’s amused, voice still warm with his accent and what you would normally categorize as fondness, but that’s impossible just meeting him seconds ago.

“But I know nothing about you, just the company. They were very cryptic.”

“Well….isn’t that the fun of a date? The getting to know someone?” He gestures for you to sit on the couch before he untwists the cap and takes a swallow of water. He sits down once you do, leaving several feet between you.

“Is that a better choice of word than assignation?”

He chuckles, pointing at me. “Smart. That was apparent pretty early on.” He seems completely at home even though you’ve been in the room since early afternoon, and are sitting with your back ramrod straight. “Didn’t even have to mention your job situation to know you’re smart.”

There is no natural segue into this, but you have to know. Even if he lies to you, you have to know. “Do you have a choice? I mean, do they assign you clients who fall under certain types, or do you have a quota?”

“You want to talk about my work?”

You take a breath, setting down the bottle on the table. “I guess not. I hope this isn’t horribly unwanted. I know it’s work for you, but I hope you–”

He shakes his head, immediately straightening up from his relaxed position, hand falling to your knee, not bare because you couldn’t see meeting him in a dress, even if that was encouraged for ‘heightened romance’ and ‘efficient disrobing’. Despite that you’re wearing a blue jumpsuit, his hand is so warm through the fabric.

“This okay?” He nods to his hand placement.

“You have carte blanche to touch me, Chris. I’ll tell you if I’m not okay with it.” That’s something you feel sure about at least.

His eyes widen and his smile grows. “Okay then. Same, by the way.”

There goes your confidence running out the door; that you can touch him in any way you want.

“Back to your question. I chose you.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs and gently squeezes your knee before drawing back. You’re somewhat befuddled by the simple touch and you remind yourself that you’re in for a lot more than that and to stop being so sensitive.

“I watched your video, read your survey answers…and said yes.” He puts down the water bottle and leans forward a bit. “If no one had said yes, you wouldn’t have gotten that confirmation email.”

“You can choose?”

He nods.

“And you were okay with me?”

“Wow.”

You recognize it, the immediate words of chastisement that come when you say things like that, so you continue quickly.

“I know, I know. I should be confident, right? Love myself, blah blah blah. I don’t hate myself. I just also know that I’ve never had someone interested in me enough to make me think that anyone would choose me.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. And you realize you’ve just made this all the more awkward and put words into his mouth, which is highly presumptuous of you.

“I’m sorry.” It’s easier to stare at the city lights than at him, no matter how beautiful he is.

“Why?”

You look at him. “I…I was rude.”

“You were honest.”

You scoff. “That’s not usually a problem for me.”

“Good.”

You tuck your feet under you, leaning one elbow on the back of the sofa, eyeing him like he isn’t real.

He’s not. You’ve paid a lot of money for an illusion.

“Really?”

“I like honesty.”

“Even if you’re playing a part for me?”

“You did not mention roleplay on that survey.” His smirk is delighted when you drop your gaze. “I’m not playing. Yes, I do what I do, but I’m going to be myself.”

“Even if all I want is so vanilla it barely qualifies for your line of work?”

He shakes his head. “Even if that’s all. But I don’t think that’s entirely true.” He reaches out, hand hovering over yours. “Okay?”

“Carte blanche.” You nod. You’re pretty sure you mentioned that you were touch-starved in the application process.

He slots his fingers with yours, his focus on the meeting of your hands. “Do you want to talk about why I’m here?”

You wish you could say no, but that’s cowardly. And you do want to be brave.

“That I’m a virgin and have so little understanding of sexual pleasure so I hired an expert to do what I can’t even do for myself?” your voice breaks and you hate yourself for it.

“Why are you a virgin?” he asks. “Sex is not difficult to find if you really want to.”

“I said all this in my–”

“I’d like you to tell me anyway.” He doesn’t do more than hold your hand and his warmth, the lyrical quality of his voice seems to calm you just a touch. “Please?”

He has beautiful eyes. He probably knows that, and knows how to use them. But you can’t help but get lost in them when he says ‘please’ just like that.

“I’m…I think or I thought that it should be something special, you know? I get that maybe I idealized it a bit much, growing up, eyes all starry with thoughts of romance and being intimate. But even recognizing that, I didn’t want to just…say yes to the drunken proposition at a bar. And…well, I’ve never been in a relationship, so being with someone I trusted wasn’t on the table either.”

“And why haven’t you been in a relationship?”

“It’s not just on me…the other person has to want to as well.” You’re beginning to sound like a petulant child and that’s not ideal.

“You’re telling me no one wanted to?”

You stare at your combined hands. “If someone wanted to, I didn’t. If I wanted more than just a moment, he wasn’t interested.”

He says your name and you look up. You aren’t sure what he’s thinking, but it’s not pity in his eyes. That’s nice at least.

“Why now? Why the company?”

“I’m…” You let out a heavy breath. “You saw my information. You know how old I am.”

“I do.”

“I’d like to know what an orgasm feels like before I get any older, because time seems to be running so fast and I’m frustrated that this part of life, of the human experience, is blocked from me.”

“It’s not.” He loosens his grip, turning your hand so it’s open, face-up, on your knee. He starts to trace along the lines there. “You can have an orgasm any time you want.”

“You think I haven’t tried?”

“What’s the problem?” There is no judgment in his tone, nothing but consideration. When you don’t immediately answer, he continues. “This wasn’t in your application or interview.”

“I get scared.”

To his credit, he doesn’t stop the light touching of your hand, even if admitting this feels like the quintessential ‘walking into your classroom naked’ nightmare.

“Do you know why?”

You shrug, completely focused on the chaste and sweet brushes of skin on skin. “I haven’t been to therapy in a couple years, but I can speculate.”

He waits, a quirk of a smile when you don’t say anything.

“I’ve probably built it up, in my head. Made it such a big deal that the anticipation is insurmountable. Or…I hate that it’ll just be me. That my first one will be on my own. I don’t know.”

“Or societally-taught shame.”

You laugh. “Or that.”

He finally draws away after your hand feels thoroughly seduced. He leans back, waits before speaking. He doesn’t seem to rush anything, which is both nice and absolutely maddening.

“Will it still be special if you’ve paid for it?”

That is the question, isn’t it?

“Maybe not. But at least, you’re contractually obligated to make sure I enjoy it, right? That seems pretty special after hearing everything from women I know about the men they sleep with.” The stories you’ve heard. It’s enough to question whether sex is even what you hope it might be.

“And that’ll be enough?”

You want to reach out and touch him. Trace the lines of his face; the strong nose, the dimples, the curves of his eyebrows and lips. Touch the dark hair, wavy and messy that contrasts with the striking facial features.

You could, you suppose. You paid for such access, right?

As beautiful as he is, as lovely as his voice is, and perhaps it’s because of those very things that you cannot be bold physically. Even if all you want is to be held.

“I guess it has to be.”

He nods and opens his mouth to speak, but your stomach decides right then to make the most egregious sound. He laughs, a full session of giggling as you heat in mortification. He stands and offers his hand.

“Let’s have dinner then?”

“Oh but.” How do you word this? “Is that good to do before–?” You’re an adult but you can’t for the life of you say ‘making love’ which isn’t even accurate. But ‘fucking’ feels incredibly crass.

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “You’ll need your energy, right?”

He’d know of course.

Some of the tension, the awkwardness, dissipates when you both look at the room service menu and order. Chris admits that spicy food is not his thing and you think it funny that this is the first thing you both have in common.

“Do you…do you abstain from alcohol because of struggling with it?”

He has poured you a glass of the sparkling sweet stuff you’d picked up for yourself. You were pretty sure he wouldn’t like it, most men don’t or don’t admit that they do. The wine, like this entire experience, is for you.

Your mind likes to tell you that you’re being selfish, but you’re choosing not to listen closely.

He sets down the bottle before gesturing that you should sit again on the sofa while waiting for dinner. He waits until you sit before doing the same. You note mentally, in all capital letters, that he sits closer to you.

“I generally don’t like it. Nor is it something I ever want to rely on…” He watches you take a sip and you find that a skill you tend to do well (drink something) is hindered by such an attentive gaze. You wipe your mouth quickly and set the glass down, looking away. “It’s my job. And I don’t want to do it with an inhibited mind.”

“Oh.”

“Can you do something for me?” he asks softly, reaching out once again to take your hand. You let him, hoping he will as successfully seduce this as he’d done with the other.

“What?”

“When you have a thought, like you just did? Just tell me.”

“Without a filter?”

He grins, wide. “Absolutely without a filter.”

“Why?”

He chuckles and starts tracing the lines of your palm and fingers. “How am I going to get you to let go if I don’t know what is going on inside that head of yours?”

“I was hoping you’d just shut it down for me instead.”

It’s a glint. A quick, but potent change in his eyes. “Gotta know how it works before I render you senseless.”

His voice has changed too. No longer warm, but hot. No longer lyrical, but sharp.

“It’s noisy,” you say slowly. “My brain rarely slows down or gets quiet. I went to a concert once, one I was super super excited about, and I kept telling myself to enjoy the moment, being present right then. But just telling myself that…”

“Means you weren’t. Present.”

You shake your head. “I’m going to overthink this.”

He nods. “Understood.” He lets his touch carry up the inside of your forearm and elbow. You shiver. He meets your eyes with a smirk.

“How long have you been doing this? With the company?”

“A few years,” he says, fingers still lightly brushing your skin. “It’s not my only job. It’s just the better paying one.”

“What else do you do?”

“Act. Or try to. I go to quite a few auditions, but the results aren’t great.” His lips twist as he thinks. “But I like it. I like the process of character work.”

“Do you do community theatre?”

“Some.” He grins. “You a theatre kid?”

“Once upon a time.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it.”

“Oh but–”

He stands, hand out to keep you where you’re at. “It’s your weekend, right? Let me serve you.” The emphasis on ‘serve’ is left hanging as he goes to the door to retrieve dinner. You take a big gulp of your drink, unbidden images in your mind. You have no practical experience, but your imagination is as active as the rest of your brain.

He returns with a large tray, setting down the dishes with ease.

“Worked in food service?”

“Who hasn’t?” He returns to the spot next to you and rests his hands on his knees. “You?”

“Food service? Yes. I was terrible at it.”

He laughs before removing the lids of each plate. He offers you one, silverware in his other hand.

“Here you are, madam,” his grin is unburdened, very playful and bright. You could stare at it for hours. “Why were you terrible at it?”

You set your plate down, waiting for him to get his own food before you start. “Too many things to remember. And trying to interact with people like that? It was just…awkward. I'm decent with people, but for whatever reason, having to take their orders, bring them food and drink, figure out when is the appropriate time to bring them their check, just makes me awkward.” I shrug. “Also, murder on the feet.” You take a bite and chew, enjoying the flavors.

“It really is. Which is why I prefer to do my work lying down.”

You can feel the immediate heat in your face at his words and he laughs so hard, he falls back on the couch.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry. It’s such a bad joke, but your face.” He squeezes your knee again, before taking a bite of his own meal. When you don’t say anything, he swallows and looks back at you. “What? Cheesy jokes aren’t your thing?”

It’s the smile. The crinkling of his eyes and scrunch of his nose.

You lean close to kiss his cheek. “I just wanted to do that,” you say softly before pulling back and trying to focus on your food. You can feel his gaze as you take a few more bites. You know your embarrassment is more than obvious if he’s looking at you.

Finally after several seconds of silence, you make eye contact.

He smiles once you do, not saying anything, but returning to his meal. You both concentrate on that, the conversation mostly paused for sustenance. He refills your glass, but you’re careful not to drink too much, recognizing that you are a lightweight and you want to remember whatever happens.

“We can order dessert?” he prompts when each of your plates are more empty than full.

You lift your glass. “Plenty of sweet right here.”

“Can I try?” He doesn’t go for the extra wine glass still on the low table. He reaches for yours. It’s familiar, the drinking after someone else. You know it’s dumb to focus on it as you hired him for sex, but as you watch him sip it and stare into nothing as he ponders if he likes it or not, you feel the intimacy.

“Well?”

“I like it.” He hands the glass back. “Doesn’t taste like alcohol.”

“Which makes it dangerous and this should be the last for me.” You look back to your plate, not completely done, but you’re thinking too much again and you can’t stomach any more.

He stands and starts to clean up, shaking his head the moment you move to join.

“I’m not good with just…not doing anything.”

“I can see that.” He doesn’t have to seem so amused. “Makes it fun.”

Mock-annoyed, you take your glass and walk to the windows so you can take in the view. The sun has been set for at least an hour now, and the lights from the city buildings are plentiful. You take a few deep breaths, realizing that now dinner is done, there is nothing hindering the ‘just do it’ portion of the night.

You hope he’s okay with a lot of foreplay because you, in the little you know about your body, need a lot of build up.

The door opens and shuts with him setting out the dishes for hotel staff to retrieve and soon you hear him rustling through his bag. You turn to see him pull out a zipped pouch. He winks at you.

“Gonna brush my teeth?”

“Oh. Oh sure.”

He chuckles at your response, and you force yourself to look back out over the city. Then in an almost panic, you finish the last of your wine, set down the glass and hurry to your overnight bag by the king-sized bed. You dig through to find your own toiletry bag, and tug it out. He comes out of the bathroom, glances over to see you’re no longer by the window.

“I thought…” You feel so stupid. “I’d do the same.”

He smiles and gestures toward the bathroom. You hurry past him and shut the door behind you. You regret looking in the mirror as your face is decidedly not a poker face. Your nerves show in your eyes, the swollenness of chewing on your lips, the sheen of perspiration on your skin.

You wipe under your eyes as your makeup is smeary before quickly brushing your teeth. You soak one of the pristine white washcloths and twist it so it’s damp and not dripping. You press it lightly to your face, hoping the cool will calm you down. You fiddle with your necklace, pulling the clasp to the back of your neck as though that will make any difference in how you appear to him.

When you open the door, he’s standing by the end of the bed, hands in his pockets, looking at the two books you have on the nightstand. He points to them before speaking.

“Planning on doing a lot of reading?” He’s teasing, and that helps you calm down a little bit.

“I can’t go anywhere without at least one book. Even if the chances of getting to read are slim to none.” You mirror his posture, sliding your hands into the pockets of your jumpsuit.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

“Theoretically? Absolutely.” Your tone does nothing to confirm your words.

“Wanna sit with me?” He sits at the end of the bed and pats the space next to him. You hesitate. “Or we can sit on the couch?”

Dumb, you are dumb. The bed is the obvious final destination, but for whatever reason, the couch feels safer right now.

“Please. The couch.”

He gets up and walks over to where you are still standing. He slips his hand in yours.

“Come on, yeonin,” he says as he leads you back to the couch. He tugs you down next to him and you sit stiffly, hand still in his, other hand on the edge of the cushion like you’re about to escape. You force yourself to take a deep breath. “That’s better.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

You look at your hands entwined. His are, like the rest of him, really attractive; bigger than yours, veins prominent in the way that epitomizes sexy.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight. We don’t have to do anything the entire time,” he reassures you, making you look up to his face. “This is for you. It can be on your timeline.”

“But…but if I don’t do it now…I don’t think I ever will.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles, causing you to stare at him. “I think you’re psyching yourself out.”

“Oh, I am absolutely doing that,” you agree. “I can’t seem to stop it.”

He purses his lips in thought, then draws your hand against them again. He has to hear the catch in your breathing because he smiles.

“Let’s start with what you are comfortable with. What you’ve done previously. What you want to do. With me.” His voice drops at the end, and you feel it pulsate through your body.

“Okay.”

He waits, patiently. You pull your hand out of his and turn toward him, trying to relax yourself enough that you don’t look primed to run away. You tuck one leg under you before taking his hand again. He smiles as you do, slotting his fingers with yours, watching you as you watch how your hand looks in his.

“I like your hands,” you say softly.

“Yeah? Why?”

You like how his voice doesn’t betray any judgement at your words, or offense. Just curiosity. When you meet his gaze, you can see the top of his cheeks are a little pink.

Is he blushing?

“Well, one, they’re very warm.” You laugh. “I like the way they’re shaped.” You trace his index finger as you continue. “I know masculinity and femininity are products of our society, but they’re very masculine.” You shrug before shivering.

“You cold?” he asks quickly, letting go of your hand to tug off his cardigan. He has it on your shoulders, pulling it closed, before you can even protest. His white t-shirt underneath stretches taut across his chest and shoulders, catching your attention for a good few seconds.

“I…thank you,” you reply, burying yourself more in the soft fuzzy material. “I like this cardigan.”

“I thought you might.” He’s gone back to holding your hand, other arm propped against the back of the sofa.

His words spark something. “Wait…do you pick your clothes based on your clients?”

He grins, leaning his head on his hand, eyes sparkling. “You really want me to talk about work?”

“Okay, I shouldn’t, but I’m really fascinated.”

“Well…yes. It’s a costume. Some clients want a type of escort who’s very put together, like in a suit.”

The image of him in a well-tailored suit pops into your head immediately. “I imagine you look stunning.”

The pink spreads in his cheeks and you are beyond amused that this man, with the job he has, could at all be embarrassed by something as simple as a compliment.

“I…I have a few nice suits.” He clears his throat. “But dependent on what a client is looking for in an…encounter, dictates outfit as much as persona.”

“I wouldn’t have minded seeing you in a suit.”

He chuckles, squeezing your hand before letting it go and tapping a random rhythm on your leg. “I speculated, from your interview, the way you looked at the camera, that you probably prefer authenticity over any sort of glamour. Someone a bit more real.”

“And that’s a cardigan?”

“For me it is. I was grateful I didn’t have to use anything in my hair.” He laughs now and you reach to touch his hair instinctively, caught up in the coziness and comfort of him and the simple conversation. His hair is soft, without any hair product. You can feel his eyes on you as you let your fingers brush through the strands.

“So…you’re telling me,” you ask, drawing back after another minute. “You are being yourself, right now?”

“As much as a person can be with someone they’ve just met. And hope to–” He looks up, searching for the word.

“To fuck?”

His eyes dart back to you. “Simply put. But I would like to imagine it’d be a bit nicer than that.” Neither of you say anything and you’re back to second-guessing yourself. “Hey,” he begins. “Come here.”

He takes both of your hands, pulling you so you are almost in his lap. He lets your hands fall to his shoulders, his own holding about the waist. The position means he’s looking up at you.

His thighs are warm between your legs, his eyes accented by dark lashes. You draw one finger down the length of his nose. He scrunches it at your touch.

“It’s big.”

You laugh at his self-deprecation and the underlying innuendo that was probably unmeant but who cares?

“It’s a very nice nose,” you reply, cheeky grin. He responds with his own smile. “It fits your face, so it works, right?”

“We all have our insecurities, right?”

You brush back his hair, thinking. “Some of us have so many it’s hard to see what’s not tainted in dislike.”

His hands tighten at your waist. “Tell me something you like about yourself.”

“Oh my god, you sound like my college counselor, who had me write five good things for every bad thing I said about myself.”

His smile is softer and one hand slides up your back, under the cardigan. “I’m asking for just one.”

“As much as it gets me into trouble,” you state slowly, your own hands mapping the journey of his shoulders to his neck and back again. “I like that I’m honest. That’s my default.”

“Another.”

“You said just one.”

“I did, but I’m greedy. Another and it has to be shallow.”

“Shallow?”

“Your looks.”

You frown at him, but he’s so pretty like this, looking up at you like he has all the time in the world, that he’s not on the clock. That this entire experience isn’t funded by your savings account and a plan months in the making.

“I…”

“You can do it.”

You slap his shoulder and he laughs. “Do not patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m encouraging.”

“Please.”

“Another good thing, about you.” His hand that had slid up your back has now drifted down, resting right at the curve of your ass.

“My eyes?”

“What about them?”

“God, you are my college counselor.”

His smile is unrepentant.

“They’re nice.”

His expression morphs into mild annoyance. “They’re beautiful. I like the color. And how much they show. You’d be shit at poker.”

“I’ll have you know that I mask my feelings decently well in everyday life. I’m just tired.”

He nods.

“You’re not going to ask me to say another nice thing, are you?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

You lean down slightly, lessening the distance between your faces. His eyes don’t flicker away.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Maybe?”

“I like when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Confident. It’s sexy.” His voice drops lower with these words and you belatedly realize that in your effort to evade having to say another nice thing about yourself, you’ve invaded his personal space (not that he looks like he’s bothered by it) and if this was a movie or any type of story, your next move would be to kiss him.

Which means now you’re looking at his lips. They, like everything you’ve seen of him so far (oh my god, you are going to see all of him at some point if this experience is at all successful) are beautiful, perfectly-shaped, enticing.

He says your name in the same low voice, a promised whisper. “Kiss me.”

You swallow nervously. “It’s been a minute.”

“All the reason to practice on me.”

He’s good at this. Softening a moment that feels like too much for you. Making you smile when you feel overwhelmed and doubtful.

“Use you?”

“Please.” His hand slips farther down and there’s no denying that he has moved to less than appropriate places.

You let your eyes close as you cover the last bit of space between you and him, your lips touching his so lightly it feels like a wisp of a daydream. He doesn’t let you get away with it though. Hand cupping the back of your neck, he keeps you there, the kiss lengthening and lingering in a way that brings back the shivers you thought the cardigan had dispelled.

When he draws back, your breathing is a bit labored. He caresses where his hands sit, neck and ass, watching you carefully. You expect him to say something, maybe about you needing some practice for sure, but he doesn’t. He just watches before moving back in.

“Open up, yeonin,” he whispers, and your lips part instinctively at his words. Eyes close and you feel his tongue trace the inside of your lips before sliding in to stroke yours.

You whimper and his hand tightens its grip on your ass. You run your fingers through his hair before moving closer. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s good at kissing…it’s probably a requirement of his job. But where so many can use their tongue to excess, he’s found the perfect balance of tongue, lips, and teeth.

When you decide to be a bit bold and nibble on his lower lip, his hand tightens, a sharp exhale.

“Confident,” he murmurs against your mouth before leaving it to press kisses to your jaw line, down to your neck. There’s a light nip and you gasp, your own fingers digging into his shoulders. He squeezes the back of your neck gently.

“Chris,” you breathe, and he draws back, looking up at you. His lips are swollen, pink and plump. The color high on his cheeks, his hair even more tousled.

“What is it, baby,” he asks softly, the quiet of the hotel room overwhelming. Should you have put on music? Isn’t that often the precursor to a night like this? His kiss on your lips is quick and almost careless. “Stay with me. I can see you thinking too hard.”

You half-laugh, embarrassed, loosening your hands and starting to sit back on your heels practically. He holds you firm so you can’t put any distance.

“Don’t. Don’t move away.” He rubs your back, soothing. “What is it?”

“I just…you’re right. I’m thinking again.”

He smiles, leaning in so your noses touch. “Kiss me again. You’re good at it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His smile widens when you swoop back in. He lets you lead, eager to taste him, eager to enjoy this moment without thinking it’ll end in minutes. You play with his hair, while he kisses you back, tongue curling with yours. It takes you a moment or three, realizing that his hold on your ass, tightens ever so much, ever so slowly closer until when you break from his lips to suck a mark on his neck, his hips buck right up against you.

And you freeze.

“Hey, hey,” he says, still in that soft soft voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” you breathe.

“Scared?” You’ve tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, trying to relax.

“It’s dumb. It…you feel good. It’s just…surprising. I’m sorry.”

He kisses the side of your head, the hand again rubbing circles on your back. “Don’t apologize.” He waits. “Look at me.”

You lift your head, your face burning with humiliation. He cups your face in his hand.

“Your pace, okay? If you’ve never been with someone, it would be a little scary.” He holds your chin with his thumb and forefinger. “But if it worried you at all, I do want you.”

You take a deep breath, watching his face as though there might be something to tell you he isn’t being truthful.

“You’re way too nice.”

He chuckles, kissing you softly. “I like being nice. I like being nice to you. I like listening to the sounds you make when you’re excited, how you move closer when turned on.” He stares at you with no shame. “I like that it’s me making you do those things.”

Your cheeks burn.

“Come on,” he says, and without any sort of visual effort, he lifts you. You squeak, legs wrapping around his waist. He’s laughing at your shock, carrying you toward the bed. You can feel your breathing shorten as he lays you down with ease. He regards you, rubbing one hand on your thigh that starts to relax, his other against the mattress, so his entire weight isn’t on you.

You stare up at him.

“What are you thinking now?”

“That I’m warm.”

His grin is infectious. “Probably ought to get rid of that cardigan.” He rolls to his side, gently tugging the garment off your shoulders, down your arms. You push yourself up so he can pull it from under you. You fall back, the bed bouncing. He waits for a second.

“Still warm?” he asks, fingers tracing the buttons in front of your jumpsuit. His eyes flick to yours. “We still good?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not entirely convinced by that,” he teases, leaning to kiss you just as he undoes the top button. You focus on the feel of his mouth, the wet heat, even as it leaves your lips, trailing down to your neck and then the middle of your chest as he undoes the rest of the buttons. “Pretty,” he comments when your bra is revealed by the unbuttoning. He looks up at you through his lashes.

“Pretty,” you repeat, tugging on the shoulder of his t-shirt. He laughs as he sits up and does the very attractive guy thing, of pulling it off from behind his neck. “Oh.”

He raises his eyebrows, looking down at his half-naked state. “I mean, I did have dinner, so…” There’s humor, but you hear the self-deprecation.

It’s instinct, you sitting up and reaching out to touch him. “The ‘oh’ was pure admiration, Chris. Like, you are stunning.” Your hands trace down his arms. “I…it’s a little intimidating, honestly. I know that for your job…both jobs probably…you need to look perfect…but perfection is daunting.” You don’t think that your hands are boldly caressing his bare skin, until you feel the top of his jeans at your fingers. Your eyes widen and you pull away as though burnt.

He’s giggling, grabbing your hands and placing them back on his shoulders. “Carte blanche, remember. God, you’re cute.” He keeps his smile even when the giggles subside, carefully nudging your clothing off your shoulders. He draws one finger up the valley between your breasts.

“I am not perfect-looking.”

He doesn’t look away from you, eyes heating at your bare skin, his hand resting on your arm. You start to pull away, fidget at the quiet and his lengthy perusal. His hand tightens, keeping you still.

“Chris.”

His eyes move up to yours. “Stunning.”

You don’t believe him, why would you when he looks like he does? But there’s something in his gaze that makes you think he believes it, and in matters of whether or not someone is beautiful, it really is in the eye of the beholder, right?

And he is beholding, currently.

It’s too much for you at this point, his acute focus on you, so you move in to kiss him again, more than happy to get back to the familiar. He returns kiss for kiss, and you fall backward into the mattress and pillows, his body on yours, a pleasant weight. When he leaves your lips this time, you think you’ll feel him against your neck, leaving marks; but the wet heat of his mouth encases your covered breast. The gasp you let out is barely audible, the sharp inhale of air. It sends a frisson through you, as his hand slips under the still open fabric covering your hips. The combinations of heat from his mouth and his hand overwhelms, and you can’t stop shuddering. You make some nonsensical sound when he proceeds to lavish the same attention on your other breast. The wet lace and satin scratches in the most indulgent way.

“Do something for me?” he whispers, his breath chilling your damp skin.

“What?”

“Since it’s new, use the stoplight system? Red means full stop. Yellow means a pause, perhaps take a break, and green means you’re good, not scared, not hurting.” His eyes zero into yours without flickering away.

You nod, breathless. “Okay. I…I can do that.”

“Cause I’m gonna touch you now, and you gotta tell me what works and what doesn’t.” He kisses your nose. His fingers sneak under your underwear, slowly like he believes you’re still skittish (you are, but you also want something down there). He’s so gentle, kissing you as he drags the pad of his finger along your entrance. “Color?” he says against your mouth.

“Huh?”

He lifts his head a bit more, smiling down at you. “What color?”

“Oh. Oh! Green.”

He chuckles, murmuring, “Cute,” before going back to kissing you. His thumb presses on your clit and your hips buck. “Easy,” he says, his other hand on your hip to hold you down.

“Chris…that…that feels good.”

He does the same movement again, your hips try, but his hand is heavy to keep you steady. “That?”

You narrow your gaze, even though you’re quivering with his touch. “You’re making fun of me.”

He leans in, smile as wide as can be, dimples deep. His nose brushes yours.

“Absolutely.”

You raise up to meet his lips, fingers seeking his hair. He hums, his fingers playing with you, as though seeking the destination immediately isn’t the point. You trace down his neck to his shoulders and arms.

“You know,” you begin, gasping when he slides one finger into you. His smile is so arrogant.

“You were saying?”

“I…”

He circles your clit with the barest of touches, his other finger curling up inside. Your breath hitches.

“Breathe, baby. Yeonin, you’re okay, just breathe.” His gaze is soft on you as you can’t help but close your eyes tight as the liquid pull of pleasure grows. You feel like a band drawn tight, seconds away from breaking. You feel his lips on yours, careful before speaking. “Don’t be scared, just let go.”

It ramps up, the tension building and building, and you are gasping, opening your eyes to see that his gaze is resolute on you.

When his second finger slips in, curling with the other, you shatter.

He licks into your mouth, as you have no voice to make a sound. You’re only aware of the sensations; his tongue on yours, your fingers biting into the skin of his arms, how your legs tremble.

How the quiet and ease flickers back into your brain after the quivers lessen, and the muscles ease.

His fingers are still in you, still touching you and you shake your head.

“Too much?”

“Yellow.”

He pulls his hand away, quietly adjusting your underwear. The hand that held your hip slides up to your stomach, warm and comforting.

You take a deep breath, finding his eyes. “Wow.”

He laughs, falling down next to you, no longer propping himself up. If your face was hot with exertion and arousal earlier, it’s now hot with embarrassment.

“That’s the best feedback I’ve gotten,” he says, his hand cupping your waist, so he can roll you toward him.

“I doubt that.”

He leans in to kiss you quick. “How do you feel?”

“Both exhausted and energized. I think.”

“Sounds about right.” He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. You push yourself to your elbows, unable to look away from him. He eventually glances over. “Yes?”

“That’s not it, is it?”

He snorts, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Not at all. But I thought you might want a break.”

Your gaze moves from his beautiful face to his arms. “I remember what I was going to say before you…”

“Before I…?”

“Shut up.”

He’s snickering.

“I was going to say how it’s wrong that they only talk about curves in regards to women. Men have curves too.” You smooth your fingers along his arm, wrist to shoulder. “Just as beautiful.”

His snickering fades. “Really?”

“Arms…jaw line.” You trace each as you speak. “Lips.” Which part when your finger makes contact. You meet his eyes for a second before hoping it’s an invitation, slip your finger in. His lips wrap around it, his teeth dragging against the pad of your finger. “Oh god.”

He smiles before sucking then releasing. He sits up, finger under your chin so you’re facing him. He kisses you lightly, before toying with the last button on your jumpsuit. “I think we should remove this.”

As much as you’d like to see more of him, completely baring yourself is something you haven’t done outside of your own bedroom, and in a doctor’s office. But you can do this. “Okay..if…” You gesture to his jeans. “Equality and all that.”

“For equality,” he teases, moving to stand at the end of the bed. You follow, reaching for the button on his jeans. “You want to?”

“Yes.” You focus on your fingers working properly, though you’re still a bit shaky from your…orgasm. At some point, you are going to have to process through that. His hands cover yours. “I can do it, I’m just a bit jumpy.”

You feel his lips on your forehead. “You know, we don’t have to do this tonight. I could just eat you out.”

Your head shoots up in surprise. He seems unbothered by how casually he talks about oral sex.

“But you’re…” With your hands near and your attention at the fastening of his pants, his arousal is more than obvious.

“Yes, I am.” He doesn’t let go of your hands, even as you undo the button and pull down the zipper. There’s a strain to his voice when your fingers unthinkingly brush him. There’s a twitch and you find yourself fascinated by it. “But this is easily dealt with if you want. You’re still a virgin, but you know what an orgasm feels like. So, we could just stop–”

“No,” you interrupt, looking up at him, letting your hand stroke him through his underwear. There’s another twitch, and his face tenses slightly. After being so completely undone by his touch, you want to ‘return the favor.’ See him undone. “Please?”

Your hands are bolder, tugging down his jeans so you can cup him easier. He breathes sharply through his nose, head dropping slightly.

“You do not have to say please, I’m more than willing.”

You peer up at him. His eyes are half-mast, another edged inhale. You push down his jeans completely, letting him step out of them, kicking them away. He wears black boxer-briefs that are straining currently. You reach for them, but he wraps his hands around your wrists, halting you.

“No?”

“Equality,” he says, the amusement back in his voice.

Right, you still have your jumpsuit on, well, half on.

He lets go, moving a step closer so you can feel his body heat, smell whatever fresh cologne he wears, heightening his natural scent. He slides his hands between your skin and the jumpsuit, hands so warm you shiver despite not being chilly. Your clothing falls, following the journey of his hands, hips to thighs to ankles. He’s at your feet, looking up at you; those eyes so dark, you can’t see the warm mahogany.

You step out of the pile of fabric and he tosses it over the back of the chair several feet away.

You are essentially without clothing, your underwear (hand-picked for this weekend as you figured you might as well try something pretty) covering enough, but not enough. If he senses this, he doesn’t indicate, walking back to you and cupping your face in his big hands, tipping your head up for a kiss. You welcome this, the heat of his mouth. It’s been only minutes since he’s kissed you, but you crave like an addict who’s going through withdrawal.

Stroking his bare back has you humming against his lips (how could a back feel so good? But here you are). You can feel his smile, his tremble and goosebumps as the room isn’t exactly at temperature for as little as you two are wearing.

“Cold?” you ask softly. He pecks your lips before drawing back to make eye contact. His hands stay on your face, and you feel cherished, which a voice in your brain tells you is stupid as you’re paying this man and his company to make you feel like that.

He’s a really good actor.

“A bit,” he replies to your question. He brushes his nose with yours. “I’ll grab a condom.”

Your eyes widen, but you nod, immediately colder when he lets go. He sits at the end of the bed, rummaging in his bag. You grab something out of yours, your face hot with embarrassment. He looks over at what you offer.

“I…uh…did research and a friend recommended this.”

“Lube?” he asks, taking it and glancing at the label. “Okay.” He’s smiling at you, like you’re funny, which might be true even if you aren’t trying to be.

You sit on the bed, in the middle, a bit at a loss now that you have nothing in your hands. “I would have bought condoms, but there’s so many kinds and sizes and I was worried I might offend you with getting the wrong size. I wouldn’t even know.”

He looks over his shoulder, still smiling. “Tends to be a required thing I bring.”

“Of course.”

He, having retrieved said prophylactic, crawls to where you’re sat (the bed is king-sized and it feels monstrously large). He sits next to you, cross-legged like you are.

“Again, we don’t have to. I can get you off as much as you want without–”

“It’s weird,” you say, glancing at him. “Just talking about this. I’ve talked in theoreticals about sex my whole life and now, it’s just…it’s such a normal thing, right? Just this thing a lot of people do but I haven’t.”

He bumps shoulders with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent again. I’m sure it’s annoying.”

He links his hand with yours, resting them on his knee. “I’m not annoyed. I like talking to you. And I want you to be comfortable and have a good time, not feel pressured or coerced in any way. We can talk all night.”

“No. I mean, that actually sounds like fun with you.”

His answering smile is brilliant.

“But…I want to. I’m just nervous.” You lift his hand, still wrapped around yours, to your lips. You meet his gaze. “I’m so glad you chose me.”

The fondness melts into something hotter in his eyes, pupils dilating. He eases you onto your back, kissing you softly, mouth at your mouth, then your neck and collarbone. You squirm, as he hovers over you, raising up to check on you. It’s criminal how good he looks, hair messy (from your hands), lips swollen (from your lips). He toys with the clasp of your bra, his fingers brushing the edges of your curves.

“Can I?”

You nod, your breathing hindered by how easily he’s wound you up again, with only kisses. He undoes the clasp without difficulty, gently peeling off the lace from your breast, exposing them to his regard.

With a glance at your face, another check in, he lowers to suck on one nipple, the feeling entirely different without fabric hindering. You hiss out his name, hands scrambling to grab his arms, something to ground you. His chuckles vibrate against your skin and you moan more wantonly than you believed you were capable of. He moves to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. Your fingers dig into his arms; you’ll leave marks.

You hope you leave some sort of impression on this man.

Once he’s done twisting you up, he removes your bra, tossing it aside before snapping the band of your underwear, causing you to jolt.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Please. Yours too?” Your words aren’t more than whispers. He smirks, before shedding his and tugging down yours. You stare, openly and blatantly at his nudity.

“I’m debating on telling you whether I’m average or not,” he teases, making you look away from his cock to his face.

“Does it matter? Really?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” you say, prompted by the visual you have.

His cheeks, already pink from arousal, deepen all the more and you laugh. He makes a face at you before moving back to kissing you.

“Aren’t you just trouble,” he murmurs, slipping the foil packet into your hand. “Put it on?”

You push yourself back up to rip open the packet, and roll it on him. You don’t draw back, fascinated by the immense heat he radiates, how delicate the skin is, even under the latex. He twitches at your exploration.

“It feels okay?”

“Feels great,” the words on a heavy exhale. He does, however, take your hand away, assisting you back onto the bed. “So…there’s a lot of ways to do this, and I would like to try them all with you, but this is probably the easiest for your first time.”

“Missionary?”

“A classic,” he jokes before his expression smoothes into something more serious. “You can tell me to stop at any time.”

“Green, yellow, red.”

“Exactly.” Moving himself, so he’s kneeling between your legs, he squeezes out the lube into his hands, warming it before sliding it onto his cock, and then to your cunt. You jump at the feel of it, but his hands haven’t forgotten how to play you and that build that you felt not that long ago, starts its climb yet again.

“Chris,” you reach out for him, shuddering as he toys with your clit. He leans down so you can grab him, feel that smooth back. His mouth attaches to yours, as his fingers circle, press and increase the anticipation. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his dick, intent because even with no experience, you clench; your body instinctively craving something to fill you. He curses at your touch. “No?”

“You’re good, baby. Hand feels good,” he reassures, lips and teeth sloppily moving against yours. “Still green?” You tense when you feel him at your entrance.

“Yes. Green, please.” You want so desperately.

He pushes in, incrementally. “Breathe through it. You have to relax.” He’s watching you so carefully as he continues. You stare back, he seems blurry right now. The stretch is borderline painful, but you still want it. Your hand slides to his hip and then his ass, where you grip hard.

“Color?” He seems so calm, but his voice is labored, tension coloring it.

“Green.” Can he even hear you? You don’t know if you’ve even given voice or just mouthed it. “Fuck. I’m so full of you.”

He curses again. “You can’t say shit like that.”

You blink away some of the haze, to focus on him. Veins bulging in his neck, and arms. “I can’t?”

“I mean…” He takes a deep breath, expression softening slightly. “You feel so good, but I need to be careful with you.”

“I do?”

He laughs brokenly at how pleased you sound. “So fucking cute,” he mutters. “I’m gonna move, okay?”

“Okay.”

He pulls back, not as slowly, but still with patience you can’t fathom. The stroke, how he slides against your core is delicious and strange and wonderful. He pushes back in.

“Feels good,” you sigh.

He hums in response, repeating the motion before chuckling. Your eyes shoot open as he looks down at you.

“What?”

“Helps if you move too.”

You’re already very hot from everything, but you can feel the blood rush to your face. He’s still giggling and moves to kiss you.

“You’re okay, I’m just giving you a few pointers. You can absolutely just lay there if you want. It’ll probably feel better though if you move.”

“I guess I’m a bit rubbish at this.”

“Nah, just learning.” He brushes his nose against yours. “No one is an expert their first time.”

As you clench and try to find a rhythm with your hips that matches his, “I bet you were.”

He laughs, strained but joyous. “I definitely wasn’t.” He keeps himself propped up with one hand on the bed, but his other returns to your clit, the mere touch pushing that climb again. There’s a moment when your hips align and you just know you did it right, but it’s half a second and you find you’re off again, especially with his attention on your clit.

“Chris,” you whine.

“You can let go, yeonin. It’s fine.”

When you break, it’s different than the first time, not as intense, but lovely and shattering. The rolls through you, tremors and muscles relaxing.

No wonder everyone does this.

“Stay with me,” you hear him. You open your eyes to see that he’s still moving, his thrusts more erratic. You squeeze him, out of some instinct you didn’t know you had. He groans. “Yeah, that’s good.” You don’t feel like you have much strength after a second orgasm, but you roll your hips and clench as best you can as he speeds up.

It’s fascinating to watch him climax, the tension in the neck veins, the jaw muscles tight, the furrow in his forehead. It’s a different kind of beauty, heightened by the knowledge that you, or your body at least, did that. He falls on top of you, his hands trying to keep his weight off, but you wrap yourself around him as he shudders from release.

After several minutes, when it seems like his trembling has ceased, you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. “Color?”

He chuckles. “Fucking green.” He kisses the top of your chest before lifting up to see you. “You?”

“That was really…yeah.”

He grins, boyish charm. “Good.” He stares at you for a few seconds. “You look a little sleepy.”

“Yeeeeah. Maybe.”

He laughs before rolling off and out of you. You wince at the loss. He disposes of the condom before tugging you off the bed.

“Did we ruin the comforter?” you ask, standing but a bit wobbly.

“Probably not,” he says, pulling the comforter off and onto the floor. He wraps an arm around you, at ease in his nakedness (your brain is foggy still and you just now are realizing how naked you are too). “Pajamas?”

“Yes…” you slur a little, exhaustion from all your nerves today, anticipation and worry catching up. He sits you down on the sheets before going into the bathroom. He returns with a wet washcloth. “Oh, I can…”

“Hush,” he admonishes, cleaning you up reverently. He tosses the washcloth on top of the discarded comforter and then goes to your bag and pulls out your faded t-shirt and soft flannel pants.

“I…I have a…lingerie nightgown in there.”

He shakes his head, coming to kneel in front of you. He slides on the pants, then the t-shirt over your head.

“Something comfortable. You can show me the nightgown tomorrow night.” He pulls back the sheets and gets you settled in. You curl to your side, eyes closed against the pillow. You hear him move around the room, the few lamps that were on turn off. It feels like seconds or days until he slides in next to you. He touches your side lightly, saying your name.

“Hmm?” you reply, before reaching to grab his hand and wrap it around your middle. There’s a half-laugh.

“Guess you like cuddling, too?”

You make an affirmative sound as he curves around you, his lips touching the back of your neck. You shiver and lace your fingers with his.

“Chris?” you say a few minutes later, the threat of sleep looming.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Thank you. I want to make sure I say it.”

He doesn’t say anything, but kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome, yeonin. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You can’t wait.

---

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.

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