byun euijoo

euijoo has been watching your tongue for months.

it happens in small, repeated moments. you dragging the last of the ice cream off a spoon. you catching a drop of sauce at the corner of your mouth without thinking. you licking powdered sugar off your thumb while you’re only half paying attention to him. every time, he goes quiet. his own food sits untouched. his eyes stay fixed on the slow drag of your tongue like it’s the only moving thing in the room.

sometimes you notice,

“why are you looking at me like that?” he blinks, slow, then that little smile shows up—the one that looks almost innocent if you don’t know him well enough. “you know what you’re doing.”

“i’m eating.”

“mm.” he doesn’t argue. he just keeps watching for another second before finally looking away, like he’s doing you a favor by stopping. you never really clock how often it happens. he never corrects the misunderstanding.

one afternoon he decides he’s tired of waiting for the accidental versions. he’s on the couch with his phone when he brings it up, voice casual like he’s just scrolling past something interesting. “there’s this trend going around, you get blindfolded and lick random stuff then try to guess what it is. people are being weirdly into it.”

you glance over. “yeah?”

“yeah.” he locks the phone and looks at you properly. “we should try it.”

“right now?”

“why not?” he’s already standing, already heading toward the kitchen like the decision’s been made. “i’ll grab things. you just sit there and look pretty.”

he comes back with a small collection—lollipops, a piece of chocolate, a spoon with something sweet still on it, a couple of harmless objects he doesn’t explain. he ties the blindfold himself, fingers careful at the back of your head, lingering a second longer than necessary. when he speaks again his voice is closer. “open.” you do. he guides the first lollipop to your mouth and watches the exact second your tongue meets it. he doesn’t rush you. he lets you take your time tasting, turning it over, trying to place the flavor while he stands there breathing a little too evenly. “well?” “cherry... i think.” “good.” the word comes out quieter than it should. he pulls it away and replaces it with the chocolate, then the spoon, then the edge of something cool and smooth you can’t immediately name. each time he watches your tongue work like it’s personal. each time his replies get a little shorter. “again.” “keep going.” “you’re good at this.” he starts escalating without announcing it. first it’s a thin smear of strawberry jam low on his abdomen, right above the waistband of his pants. he guides your face there with a hand at the back of your neck, patient, and lets you lick once. then again when you hesitate.

“strawberry jam,” you say after a moment. he sounds almost fond. “yeah..good job baby.”

he moves you to his neck next—warm skin, the faint taste of whatever soap he used earlier. then the center of his palm, where he must have put something sweet because you linger longer than you mean to. he doesn’t tell you to stop. he just lets you work it out while his breathing goes carefully controlled above you.

finally he shifts, and you hear the soft sound of him pushing his pants down. a second later something cool and sweet lands on skin that is definitely not his stomach or his hand. whipped cream. the faint grit of sprinkles. “last one,” he says, and his voice has gone rough around the edges. “take your time.” you lean in and lick. once. the cream is cold, the sprinkles slightly crunchy. you lick again, trying to map the shape underneath, and then a third time because the texture is confusing and he’s gone completely silent. his hand settles lightly in your hair.

he doesn’t push. he just holds you there while you keep tasting him, still trying to guess, still completely unaware that the answer is the one thing he’s been wanting your tongue on for months.

he doesn’t tell you to stop.

he just lets you keep going.