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“Hyung… I need you to fuck me.”
For a full three seconds, Changbin’s mind refuses to process the sentence. It hangs in the air, absurd and impossible, like a fragment of a dream that has bled into reality. He almost laughs. It must be the punchline to some elaborate, sleep-deprived joke. But then his gaze drops from Jisung’s flushed, determined face to his hands. They are trembling, a fine, constant shake that betrays the steel in his voice.
So, this is not a joke.
The air leaves Changbin’s lungs in a soft, soundless rush. “What?” The word is flat, disembodied, the only one he can manage.
Seo Changbin has been in love with his best friend Han Jisung for years. So, when Jisung asks for hands-on lessons in intimacy for his novel, Changbin agrees (for the sake of art and friendship, of course).
Series
- Part 1 of of neighbours and fiction
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Tender tension and top notch yearning
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Changbin’s face is a mask of professional comprehension. He nods at the appropriate intervals, his gaze flicking between the screen and the speaker with an appearance of deep consideration. Inside, a quieter, more familiar monologue runs parallel to the business speak. Leveraging synergies. Right. Synergy is Jisung using my expensive hair conditioner and leaving the cap off, filling the bathroom with its scent for days.
“Your thoughts, Changbin-ssi?” his director prompts, drawing him back.
“The proposed timeline is aggressive but achievable,” Changbin responds, his voice smooth and assured. He gestures towards a specific data point. “Provided we secure the additional analyst for the Q2 data-crunch, as discussed. The bottleneck risk otherwise is significant.”
The director nods, pleased. Across the table, Lee Minho catches his eye and disguises a smirk behind his tablet.
When the meeting finally adjourns with a flurry of handshakes and the shuffling of chairs, Minho falls into step beside Changbin in the sterile hallway.
“A masterclass in strategic nodding,” Minho murmurs, his tone dry as the office air. “You looked profoundly moved by the pie chart on third-quarter logistics.”
“It spoke to me on a spiritual level,” Changbin deadpans, pressing the button for the elevator. “The way the blue segment yearned for the green one. A tale of forbidden, quantitative love.”
Minho barks a laugh, a short, sharp sound that echoes in the space around them. “You’re wasted here. You should be writing the web novels your roommate is always muttering about.”
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