aphodeity7 - Tumblr blog

aphodeity7 · 7 days ago

Text

Come here

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pairing: bang chan x fem reader

word count: 9.7K

contains: +18, idol!chan, backstage pass, "come here" chan, praise, reader is his babygirl, slowww burn, teasing af, dom/sub energy shift, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), grinding, riding, unprotected sex (don't, pls), overstimulation (f rec.), size kink

authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)

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summary: You were just another fan. One among many. You were always at the front. Always perfectly put together. And now, for the first time, wearing a Wolfchan pin. And Chan? Chan noticed. He always notices. That night, with the stage lights flashing and his gaze locking on you in the crowd, you knew: He was playing with you. And you? You were ready to play back.

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

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You didn’t go to every concert. Just… enough of them.

Enough that the boys had started to recognize your face. Enough that you didn’t really have to scream or wave for their attention anymore, they just knew you were there.

You always stood close, always made sure you got there early enough to be in their line of sight. You dressed up for it. Full face, perfect hair, outfits that took effort. You liked feeling put together, like you belonged in a crowd that was watching, like you might just catch someone watching you back.

And maybe you had. Because lately? Lately they were looking. Really looking. They noticed. But Chan? He noticed differently.

Chan had this… way. This whole thing he did when he was looking at someone. Like he was reading them. Like he could crack a person open just by holding eye contact a second too long. He made it feel personal, even in a crowd of thousands.

You weren’t wearing anything new, really. Same makeup, same lashes, same signature lipstick. It was cute, but not groundbreaking. No... the only thing different tonight was the pin. Small, clipped to the strap of your shirt: a little Wolfchan SKZOO plush pin. Just a nod, just something fun. Not that you had a bias or anything, you loved all of them, and you weren’t lying when you said that.

And Chan?

Chan fucking noticed.

You didn’t catch it at first. You were busy dancing, singing, caught in the high of it all. But then… you looked up. And he was staring. Dead at you. No smile, no crowd-pleaser expression, just a tilt of the head, and those sharp eyes locked on the pin like it meant something.

And then... then he smirked. A tiny twitch of his mouth. Private. Subtle. But you felt it.

And you shouldn’t have, but your stomach flipped.

Why did he notice? Out of all things, out of all people, why did he look at a pin and suddenly see you?

—

You were already nervous before you even left the house for this concert.

Two days, that’s all it had been. But you hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The way he looked at you. The smirk.

You told yourself it was nothing. You weren’t that kind of fan. You weren’t delusional. You weren’t reading into it. But now, standing here again, same spot, same energy, same beating in your chest, you wondered if maybe… just maybe, you were right.

Tonight, you didn’t do anything different. Same full face, same energy. Same love for all of them. But the pin? You wore it again. Because… how could you not?

The show goes on like always, flawless vocals, blinding lights, sweat and glitter and power. You’re in it, screaming lyrics, jumping with the beat. But somewhere inside, you’re waiting. Hoping.

And then, it happens.

During the talk break, the boys are on stage. Chan’s holding the mic, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He laughs at something Jisung says, but then, unprompted, he starts talking. “You know…” he says, voice smooth but a little distracted, like his thoughts are elsewhere. “We’ve done a lot of shows lately. Different cities. Different stages.”

He looks out over the crowd. Not at you, not even close. But still, something about the way he pauses makes your skin spark.

“But it’s kinda crazy. I keep seeing familiar faces. People who show up again and again… makes me feel lucky, y’know?”

The crowd cheers. It sounds like white noise in your ears. And then, his voice drops just a little.

“Especially the ones who wear Wolfchan pins.”

A beat.

“Ugh. So cute.”

Chan laughs, smiling with his eyes. He definitely doesn’t look at you. But the crowd erupts. Screaming. Laughing. Some girls flash their pins. Some tease each other. The moment moves on.

But for you?

Your heart has completely stopped.

Because somehow, you knew. You knew he meant you.

And suddenly the lights feel hotter, your hands a little shakier. You look up, and just for half a second, half a breath, his eyes flick your way.

And then he’s gone again.

The concert doesn’t slow down after that moment, it only gets hotter, louder, more chaotic. But for you, everything is muffled around the edges.

Because now you know. He saw you. Really saw you.

You try to keep cool, try to stay in it, singing, dancing, smiling like your heart isn’t climbing out of your chest. But the moment replays in your head over and over again: Especially the ones who wear Wolfchan pins. Ugh. So cute.

He said it like a throwaway line. But it wasn't.

And now, halfway through another song, he's moving across the stage, close to your section. He’s hyped, bouncing with the beat, sweat glistening on his collarbone, and you're ready to stay chill, keep your hands down, your expression calm...

Except.

He glances toward your row.

Just for a second.

And suddenly, you can’t help yourself.

You catch his eyes, quick, electric, and without thinking, you do it. That little two-finger move: from your own eyes to him. A silent “I’m watching you.” A "don’t think I didn’t catch what you did." A tease.

And the second he sees it, he stops walking. Dead in his tracks. He's... smiling.

His grin spreads slow, devastating. Dangerous. Then he points. Directly at you. Not casually, not passively, but with intention. And then? He lifts that same hand and points to the floor in front of him.

Like: "Yeah. You. Come here."

The world disappears. You feel it in your spine, in your fingertips, in the burn rising up your neck. You can’t breathe. But you keep your posture. You don’t step forward. You don’t scream or wave.

You just smile, tight, smug, and say it low under your breath, knowing damn well there’s no way he could hear you over the noise:

“Don’t you dare me.”

But he’s still watching you.

And somehow, somehow, you know he read your lips. Because his eyes drop. Right to your mouth.

And then he mouths back, slowly, making sure you'd understand what he's saying:

“Oh, I do.”

—

The final bow is chaos. Confetti in the air, lights pulsing, the crowd’s screaming so loud it feels like thunder inside your bones. The boys wave, laugh, say their final thanks, and Chan?

Chan doesn’t look your way again.

Not even once.

And that, somehow, makes it worse. Or better. Or… whatever this thing crawling under your skin is.

You stay in your spot even as the crowd starts shifting, still coming down from the high, wondering if you imagined it all. The smirk. The stare. The Oh, I do.

You almost decide to leave. But then.

A hand taps your shoulder, light, but deliberate. You turn, and there’s a staff member standing there. Lanyard around her neck, black earpiece in her ear.

She leans in. “This is for you,” she says, voice just loud enough to cut through the buzz. She slips something into your hand and disappears before you can ask a single thing.

You look down.

It’s a small black envelope. No writing. Just sealed. Heavy in your hand like it knows something you don’t.

Your fingers shake slightly as you break the seal.

Inside: a single piece of paper.

“Come backstage. I’ll be waiting. - CB97”

You don’t remember how you get to the hallway. You just follow where you’re led, escorted through security, past double doors, into quieter corridors.

You were told to wait.

“Just a few minutes,” the staffer had said, smile polite but unreadable. “He’s just wrapping up some press stuff. We’ll let you know.”

So now you’re alone, backstage, but not with him. You sit on a low bench in the hallway, staring at the ground, heart hammering like it’s trying to break through your chest.

You haven’t even had time to process.

He invited you. You are backstage. For him.

It’s not like you ever thought he didn’t see you. The eye contact, the teasing, the way he pointed at the floor like he owned the goddamn world, but still, sitting here now, in the silence, it feels too big. Too unreal.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down.

Bubble.

From Chan.

You open it with a shaky thumb.

thank you guys so much for tonight! we really felt the love out there. it’s crazy seeing familiar faces again… you guys always show up looking so good tho.

Your stomach tightens.

Another message pops up almost immediately.

especially the ones wearing wolfchan pins! how do u expect me to resist when my babygirls show up like that?

You blink.

Stare.

Read it again.

And then again.

Babygirls.

Was Chan… was he... calling you… his babygirl?

You scroll up, looking for context, for anything that would make this more general. But the way it’s written, soft, teasing, casually possessive, like he meant it for someone specific.

You press your thighs together. Suddenly, you’re too hot. Your pulse is rushing in your ears. Your phone buzzes again, a different notification this time.

You look up.

The same staff member is back, smiling gently. “He’s ready for you now,” she says. “Let’s go?”

You don’t answer right away. Because all you can think is:

He invited you backstage. He pointed at you in front of everyone. He called you babygirl.

And now you’re going to him.

What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.

—

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

And just like that, you’re alone with him.

Chan’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, damp hair pushed back, black tee clinging to him like sin. A towel hangs loose around his neck, and there's still a flush in his cheeks from the stage. He looks tired. Lit. Alive.

But the moment he sees you, he straightens. Subtle, like a reflex. His lips curl. That smirk.

“You came.”

You shrug, trying to play it cooler than your heartbeat allows.

“You dared me.”

He laughs softly, nodding once, gaze still locked on yours.

“Yeah, I did.”

You step further inside, heart pounding, body high on adrenaline and something else entirely, something heavier, slower. His eyes follow you, dragging slow, like he's taking his time now that you're finally in reach. You don’t sit. You stand your ground.

He watches, waiting for something, maybe a word, maybe a slip-up. When you give him nothing, he’s the one who gives in.

“So.” He tilts his head, chin up just a little. “How many shows now?”

You meet his gaze. “Enough.”

“Yeah?” He leans back against the couch, lazy. “And you always dress up like that?”

Your arms fold instinctively across your chest, a defense. “Just feels right. It’s a concert.”

“No, it’s our concert,” he says, low, amused. “Feels more personal when you keep showing up.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t flinch.

“Recognize a few people by now,” he goes on, eyes never leaving you. “But you? You're always front row. Always… ready.”

You raise a brow. “Ready for what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smirks again, like he knows you know.

Then his eyes flick down, to the Wolfchan pin on your shirt.

“You wore that again.”

You glance down like you forgot it was there. “It’s cute.”

“It’s mine.”

That pulls a reaction out of you, a faint smile, despite yourself. But you don’t let it show too much. Instead:

“Doesn’t mean you’re my bias.”

That stops him. Briefly. Just a flicker across his expression. Then he sits forward, elbows on his knees, watching you with that infuriating calm.

“Oh.” A pause. A slow, almost dangerous tilt of his head. “Is that so?”

You nod. “I like all of you.”

He hums at that. Not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just a low sound in his throat, thoughtful. Almost like a warning.

Then...

“Wow,” he murmurs, leaning back again. “I’ll ask that again by the end of the night. We’ll see.”

We’ll see.

And just like that, the floor beneath your feet shifts. The air turns heavier. The smirk is still on his lips, but there’s something in his eyes now, locked in, lit with intent, and it knocks the breath out of you.

The words linger. Heavy. Direct.

Your stomach flips, but you don’t let it show. You hold his gaze, steady and just a little dangerous. Then, with a soft, almost lazy shrug:

“Hmm. Okay.” A pause. A tilt of your head. “Looking forward to seeing what you’ll do to win my bias title, then.”

You swear he stops breathing for half a second. Then, his tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a quiet laugh. Not out of amusement, out of approval.

“Shit,” he says under his breath, grinning now. “You’re trouble.”

The kind he likes.

His eyes drag down on you again, slower this time. Less subtle.

“Good,” he adds, voice a little rougher now. “I like working for what’s mine.”

Your skin sparks at the word — mine — but you keep your expression carefully neutral. Let him be the one off-balance tonight.

You just smile, sweet as sin.

“Guess we’ll see if you’re worth the bias spot.”

That earns a quiet groan from him, like you hit a nerve on purpose.

“Oh, babygirl,” he murmurs, low and deep, voice full of gravel and certainty. “I am.”

Babygirl.

Your breath catches. Your body reacts before your brain does, skin prickling, stomach twisting. That word again. That nickname. And hearing it out loud, in his voice?

It melts you instantly. You try to recover. Try to play it off.

“You always call random girls babygirl?”

He laughs, quiet, warm, and completely unbothered.

“Of course not,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Only the ones that are mine.”

You freeze. No witty comeback. No smug little line. Just, nothing.

He sees it. Smiles wider. Softer, this time. And then he really kills you.

“Yeah,” he says, taking one slow step closer. “You heard that right. You’re mine for tonight.”

Another pause, deliberate, held just long enough to feel like a challenge.

“I promise I take good care of my babygirls. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Your knees almost give.

And the worst part?

He knows.

He sees the way you freeze. The way your breathing shifts. The way your lips part just a little like you want to speak but don’t know how. He’s watching every tiny movement like it’s his favorite song. So you force your body to stay upright. You meet his gaze head-on.

And you say, soft, but clear:

“I’m not.”

No wobble in your voice. No flinch. His jaw tenses. Just a little. Like that answer did something to him.

“Good,” he watches your face a beat longer. “Come on,” he says, voice low, sure. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

And just like that, you follow.

No questions. No hesitation. Just your heart thundering behind your ribs as you trail behind him, out of the venue, through the private corridors, into the car. The windows are tinted. The space is dim. Private.

You sit beside him. The leather seats cold beneath you. But his presence?

Blazing.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t touch you. But he’s close.

Close enough that when you shift your leg, it brushes his. When you breathe in, you can smell the faint warmth of his cologne, the sweat from the show still clinging to his skin.

Your thighs are barely touching.

At first.

But as the car moves, and the minutes pass, Chan relaxes.

His legs spread wider, just naturally, lazily. His knee nudges yours once. Then again. And then he doesn’t move it away.

Your body goes still, hyperaware of the contact. He still hasn’t looked at you. Still hasn’t spoken.

And then...

His hand moves. Not sudden. Not demanding. Just a slow shift to his side, and then...

He touches your knee.

Warm palm. Light grip. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

You look down. His hand rests there for a beat.

Not moving. Just being there.

You don’t say a word. Neither does he.

The car slows. The lights shift. The driver says something quiet into the mic, and the door unlocks with a click.

Chan finally turns his head. Leans a little closer. And with that same casual, quiet confidence, he pats your thigh. Soft. Warm. Possessive.

“We’re here.”

You’re not sure how you’re still breathing.

But you follow him out of the car anyway.

—

The door clicks shut behind you.

And before you can turn… He’s already there.

You barely register your back hitting the wall. His body presses into yours, not hard, but like gravity, like inevitability.

His hands find your waist first, firm and steady, like he’s making sure you’re real. Then your face, his thumb under your jaw, tilting you up.

And when he speaks, his voice is rougher, lower, more him than it’s ever been.

“You know what you did to me?”

You blink, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

“Always showing up this pretty. And now wearing that pin… giving me those fucking eyes all night?”

Your lips part. Maybe to respond. Maybe to breathe. But you never get the chance.

Because he kisses you.

Hard.

No hesitation. No buildup. Just all that slow-burning tension finally crashing down, his mouth hot and demanding, lips bruising yours in the best way.

And the way he kisses?

It’s not messy. It’s focused. Like he’s been waiting, fantasizing, knowing exactly how this would feel. Like he wants to memorize your taste before he even thinks about anything else.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there. Not so you can’t move, so you won’t dare.

And he doesn’t stop to ask if it’s okay.

Because your hands are already in his shirt. Your body is already arching into his like you need it. Like you've wanted this just as bad.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe against your mouth.

“You’re mine tonight, babygirl.”

And when he says it this time?

It’s not a flirtation.

It’s a fact.

The second his lips crash into yours, the world disappears. There’s no hotel room. No walls. No floor beneath your feet.

Just him.

And god, his mouth.

You had seen it so many times. On screens, in stages, curved into grins that felt too sweet to be real. But this close?

It’s criminal. The most kissable mouth you’ve ever seen. Soft, full, sinful.

But his kiss? It’s sweet and sharp. Like honey laced with poison. Like something designed to ruin you slowly.

And it does.

You melt into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His body is solid against yours, like he’s built to hold weight, your weight, and he’s not letting go.

His scent hits you next.

Clean sweat. Faint cologne. Skin and heat and adrenaline. You don’t even realize you’ve inhaled until it makes your knees go weak.

And his hair…

Damp from the show. Little curls at his nape breaking free, curling behind his ears, soft and unstyled and real. You bury your hand there before you even think about it, and fuck, it’s like silk under your fingers.

He groans into your mouth at the touch, and the sound sends a pulse straight through your stomach.

And his hands…

You don’t know how someone so strong can touch you this gently.

There’s nothing frantic. Nothing sloppy. Every brush of his fingers is grounding, your waist, your back, your cheek. Like he’s mapping you out. Memorizing you through the skin.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, foreheads brushing, lips barely apart.

His thumb strokes your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, like the question costs him effort to ask.

You nod before you even mean to.

Your voice? Gone.

Because you’ve never felt anything like this. Never been this seen. This wanted. Every part of your body is on fire and floating at the same time.

And he’s right there, holding you through it.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling like a storm. Your skin still tingles from his touch, every inch of you alive and raw.

“God, Chan,” you say, voice low but full of awe, almost a whisper but sharp like a blade. “Why the fuck are you this charming? You don’t even seem to try. You just are.”

You brush past him, needing space, air… anything to steady the fire burning inside you.

But even as you move, you don’t look away. Your eyes catch his, wild and dark, and something unspoken passes between you.

“You know,” you murmur, stepping closer again, your fingers brushing over his arm, “I’ve dreamed about you.”

Chan stills.

Your hand trails upward, the curve of his shoulder, the line of his neck, until you’re cupping his jaw, your thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. His skin is warm beneath your touch. Real. Too real.

You trace his lips, watching how they part slightly under your fingertip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low, rough. “What you dreamed about?”

You shrug, all fake casual. Like your heart isn’t trying to punch out of your chest.

“Well, you know… I bet you’d be an awesome boyfriend and all. Sweet. Caring.”

You look at him through your lashes, and fuck, the smile already tugging at his mouth sends a jolt down your spine.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with amusement, heat building behind them.

“But?” he prompts, soft and dangerous.

You smirk, just a little.

“But I… I kinda…”

The word hangs there, teasing. He leans in slightly, eyes locked on yours like he already knows you’re about to wreck him.

“You kinda what, babygirl?”

That word again.

And just like that, your breath stutters. Your knees almost give out, again.

But you hold your ground. You bite your bottom lip, and let the words spill, soft but laced with fire:

“You’re kinda naughty, aren’t you?” You tilt your head, watching him freeze, just for a beat. “So that’s the kind of stuff I dreamed about.”

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with heat, with want, with everything that’s been boiling under the surface since the minute you locked eyes.

Chan’s jaw tenses. His hands flex at his sides, like he’s barely keeping them from reaching for you again.

And then, he steps forward, into your space, until your back hits the wall again.

His face is so close, you feel every word ghost across your lips:

“Then let me make your dreams come true.”

You don’t remember how you made it to the bed. Only that one second you were standing there, breathless and burning, and the next you were falling back onto cool sheets, with Chan crawling over you like a storm rolling in, steady, powerful, inevitable.

His mouth is on you again before you can speak. Not just kissing. Claiming. Your lips, your throat, your collarbone, each kiss deliberate, deep, like he’s trying to ruin every inch of you with his mouth. You arch into him and he groans like the sound is being torn out of his chest.

“Fuck—” he pants, dragging his hand up your thigh, “you feel unreal, babygirl.”

That nickname again. And this time, it doesn’t just make your knees weak, it pulls a moan straight from your throat. You’re already squirming under him, nerves buzzing so loud you can barely think. And he notices. He loves it.

“Yeah? This what you wanted?” he whispers against your skin, lips ghosting over your stomach as he drags your shirt up slowly, watching your body twitch under the touch. “You dreamed about me all over you like this?”

Your hands twist in the sheets as he finally gets the shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him. He just looks at you for a second. Chan freezes. Eyes dark. Mouth parted. Chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to devour you all at once.

You're in a black corset, hugging every curve, cinched perfectly at your waist, boned structure pushing your tits up just enough. It’s not subtle. It’s not sweet. It’s intentional.

And the way Chan’s jaw tightens, the sound that rips from his chest? Wrecks you.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “You wore this under your shirt?”

He reaches out like he needs to touch to believe it, hands gliding along your sides, slow and reverent.

“You tryna kill me, baby?”

You blink up at him, breathless, just watching his reaction.

“No,” you whisper. “Just thought… if I ever got this close to you, I wanted to be ready.”

That breaks him.

He leans in, groaning, pressing his forehead to yours as he mutters, “You’re insane.” His fingers dig into your waist now, not hard, but firm enough to make you whimper. Grounding. Claiming.

He looks down at you again, at the way the corset lifts your chest, molds to your skin, and he laughs, soft, dark, disbelieving.

“How the fuck am I supposed to behave now?”

His mouth finds your chest, kissing along the edges of lace like he’s worshiping you, sucking marks into skin wherever he can reach. His hands roam lower, gripping your thighs like he’s memorizing every inch.

His lips trail slow, deliberate kisses along the edges of the corset, fingers tracing the delicate lace without breaking contact with your skin. Every soft touch sends electricity shooting through you, and you can feel him fighting to stay composed, but failing.

He groans low, breath hitching as his hands slide up and down your waist, the boned structure pressing firmly under his palms.

“Damn,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with need. “This… this is torture.”

His mouth drifts back up to your collarbone, lips sucking and biting gently, but his hands don’t stop teasing the corset’s tight fit, fingers dragging along the satin in a maddening dance.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wild.

“I wanna take it off,” he admits, voice raw. “But right now… I wanna drive you crazy with it on.”

And with that, he presses a kiss just under your ear, teeth grazing softly as his hands keep teasing, sending shivers racing down your spine.

You arch into him, breath catching.

His fingers curl tighter around your waist, nails barely grazing your skin through the fabric, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the hunger, the impatience.

Then, without warning, he grips the edge of the corset’s laces and pulls.

The satin slips down your curves like liquid, exposing every inch of skin beneath. Your breath hitches as cool air hits you, and his mouth drops open just a little, raw, unfiltered desire shining in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice husky and broken. “You’re fire.”

He leans in, lips crashing against yours with a desperate hunger, hands sliding over your bare waist and back. His mouth moves with an urgent, needy rhythm, and you melt into him once more, skin alive with every touch.

“Mine for the night, huh?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip.

You meet his eyes, breath shallow. “No,” you whisper. “I think I’m yours for real.”

His grin is slow and wicked, a glint of satisfaction lighting up his face. “Oh, I guess I’m winning already,” he laughs softly, dragging his fingers down the curve of your waist, “and I haven’t even started.”

He leans in, mouth brushing against your ear, voice low and dirty. “You remember what you said earlier? That you didn’t have a bias?”

You nod, barely, your body arching toward his.

“Well,” he breathes, lips grazing your skin as he trails down your neck, “by the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember anyone else.”

His fingers slide between your thighs, finally touching where you’re aching for him, slow and deliberate. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders.

“You’ll only remember me,” he whispers against your collarbone, then kisses it. “My name. Your favorite.”

He looks up at you then, eyes dark and full of promise.

“You’ll say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You’ll say my name while I make you come.”

You whimper, already breathless, hips twitching as he kisses lower and lower, closer and closer, but never quite where you need him. You didn't even realize he took off your pants until you felt the heat of his hands press against your thighs, keeping them open, keeping you at his mercy.

“But not yet,” he smirks, trailing the tip of his nose along your inner thigh, you were feeling his hot breath in your skin. “Not until I say so.”

He licks a slow stripe along your skin, giving you several kisses, still avoiding the spot that’s throbbing for him. You let out a desperate little sound, back arching off the bed, but he only chuckles.

“Already begging and I haven’t even tasted you yet?” His voice is a low rasp, almost affectionate. “You really are mine.”

You reach for his hair, trying to pull him where you want him, but he tuts and pins your hips down firmly.

“Patience, babygirl. I’m gonna take my time with you.”

His thumbs hook under your thighs, spreading you wider, and his eyes drop to the soaked fabric between your legs. He groans, low, hungry, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging one finger along the damp cotton. “Dripping through your panties. Fuck, you really did dream about this, didn’t you?”

Your hips roll instinctively toward his touch, chasing friction, but he pulls his hand away just as quickly, smirking.

“Desperate little thing,” he teases, placing a soft kiss right over your clothed core. The pressure makes you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You gonna be good for me and wait?”

“Chan,” you whimper, voice already trembling.

He gives you another kiss. "Hmm, you smell so good."

He hums, pleased, and then slides one finger over the wet patch again, slow, steady, applying the slightest pressure. Then back. Then again. Just enough to make you ache for more.

You twist under him, and he finally slips the tip of his finger beneath the edge of your panties, brushing against your folds, barely there. Maddening.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. “And so fucking soft.”

He watches you like he’s studying every reaction, eyes locked on yours as he presses against your entrance, just enough to tease.

Then his mouth is back on you, this time, tongue pressing against the soaked fabric in one long, slow stroke. The heat of it through your panties sends sparks up your spine.

You moan, your thighs clenching around his head, and he just laughs, low and wrecked.

“I can taste you through these,” he mutters against you. “You gonna come like this, baby? With your panties still on?”

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles over your clit, the thin fabric of your panties the only thing keeping him from truly devouring you. It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough, but it’s making you insane all the same. Your hips buck involuntarily, desperate for more, but his grip is firm, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, breath hot against the soaked fabric. His tongue flicks again, slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “Tell me and I promise I’ll take care of it.”

You’re panting now, fingers tangled in his curls, eyes half-lidded as you look down at him.

“I want you,” you breathe. “I want your mouth. No teasing. Please, Chan—”

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth curving against you in a smug smile. “Good girl.”

His hands slip beneath the curve of your ass, lifting you just slightly, and he mouths at you again, harder this time, dragging his tongue in deeper pressure over your clit, still through the soaked fabric.

“Fuck, I loved hearing you beg,” he growls, voice muffled. “And you taste so fucking sweet like this.”

Then finally, finally, his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he pulls them down, slow and deliberate, watching your face the entire time.

“You’re gonna fall apart for me now, babygirl,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs again. “And you’re gonna say my name when you do.”

His mouth is on you, bare, hot, devastating. No more barriers. No more teasing. Just Chan, and that sinful tongue, and his name in pieces on your lips.

He groans the moment he tastes you properly, like it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever had in his mouth, and then he dives in, tongue flat and wide as he licks a slow, firm stripe from your entrance up to your clit. You gasp, back arching, and his hands grip your thighs tighter to hold you in place.

“God, Chan—”

“That’s it,” he pants, lips wet, eyes glazed. “Say it again. Louder.”

He locks his mouth around your clit and sucks, tongue flicking in tight, focused circles, and your hips jerk off the bed, his hands press down harder, grounding you. Controlling you.

One of his hands leaves your thigh just long enough to slide two fingers into you, deep and smooth, curling up at the perfect angle.

“Fuck—” you cry out, hands grabbing at anything, his hair, the sheets, your own skin.

His mouth doesn’t let up. Not for a second. He’s moaning into you like the taste of you is driving him wild, his fingers moving slow and deep, tongue fast and relentless. The contrast is devastating.

You feel it building fast, hot and tight and overwhelming, your body trembling from head to toe.

“That's it, babygirl,” he growls between licks, fingers never stopping. “You're so close. I can feel it.”

He speeds up, tongue working your clit like it’s his only job in the world, and you break, your thighs shaking, body tensing, and then unraveling in his hands as you come with a loud, desperate cry.

“f-fuck, Chan—!”

He groans at the sound, eyes fluttering closed as if you saying his name like that feeds something deep in him.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking through it, slower now, coaxing every last wave out of you until you’re twitching and whimpering from overstimulation.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, chin wet, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s pure wrecked pride. He crawls up your body, hovering over you, his voice wrecked and low.

“There she is,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Good fucking girl. You said my name so pretty.”

You’re breathless, completely boneless beneath him, limbs trembling, chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven bursts. Your thighs are still twitching from the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy with the kind of bliss that feels almost unreal.

“God, Chan,” you manage, voice raw and shaky, “you’re insane. You’re better than what I dreamed of.”

He laughs, low, dark, satisfied.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair back from your forehead. “Didn’t think I could top your dirty little imagination, huh?”

You shake your head, lips parted, still trying to process the wreckage he just left behind. His hand slides down to your thigh again, gripping it with possessive ease, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers, voice smug now. “Still fucking trembling and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You let out a broken sound, part whimper, part breathless laugh, and he leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then your throat.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “Wrecked. Messy. Dripping all over the sheets because I ate you through your panties.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, expression gleaming with that cocky, almost reverent intensity. Your heart kicks in your chest, but your lips curl into a slow smile, something shifting behind your eyes.

Still breathless, still aching, but now… now you want a taste of him.

Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers skating over his abs, down to the waistband of his pants. You feel him suck in a sharp breath as your fingers graze over the hard line of him beneath the fabric.

“Then let me return the favor,” you whisper, voice sweet but loaded with intent. “I wanna see how loud you get.”

He raises an eyebrow, but his breath stutters.

“Oh?” he says, tone amused but shaky around the edges. “You think you can wreck me?”

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear now, voice sultry and daring.

You trail your fingers lower, brushing over the bulge in his pants with deliberate slowness, feeling him twitch beneath your palm. His breath hitches, the muscles in his stomach tensing.

“You really thought you’d fuck me tonight?” you whisper, your voice all soft venom and promise. Then you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “Oh no, Channie. I’m the one riding.”

The moment the name slips from your lips, something in him snaps.

His eyes go wide, like you just knocked the breath out of him, and his jaw clenches tight. You feel it, the way his whole body reacts, like the word hit him straight in the gut.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice suddenly wrecked, strained, hips jerking up instinctively against your hand. “Don’t—don’t call me that looking at me like that unless you want me to lose my fucking mind.”

You smile, wicked and slow, and you do it again, just to watch him fall apart.

“Aww, does Channie like that?” you crawl over his lap now, straddling his thighs. “Is that what makes you weak?”

He groans, head falling back against the pillows, chest rising in shallow breaths.

“Jesus, you really wanna play this game?” he rasps.

You lean down, grinding your hips against his, slow and deep, and he bucks beneath you, a choked sound escaping him.

“Oh yeah,” you murmur against his throat. “I want to watch you break.”

You drag your lips along his jaw, your fingers dipping under the waistband of his pants, teasing the skin just above his cock, but not freeing him. Not yet.

“Listen, Channie,” you purr, kissing his pulse point. “I'll show you what good girls can do when they’re on top.”

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “You’re not real.”

But you are. You’re very real, and you’re about to ride him until he forgets his own name. Unless, of course, he’s too busy moaning yours.

You stay hovering above him for a second, catching your breath, your thighs still trembling just slightly from the way he wrecked you moments ago. Chan watches you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide, hands resting warm on your hips, like he’s trying not to grip you too hard, like he’s letting you decide the pace now.

You lean down and kiss him once, soft and slow, then slide your hands down his abs, once again down to the waistband of his pants.

“Let’s take these off,” you murmur, voice low, still breathless.

He lifts his hips obediently, eyes locked on yours, and you tug his pants down his legs, tossing them somewhere to the floor.

Only his underwear now, dark, tight, and doing nothing to hide just how hard he is for you. You pause, breath catching in your throat as your eyes drag over the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.

“Oh,” you whisper, lips parting. “You’re… big.”

He smirks lazily, head sinking deeper into the pillows, completely in his element now.

“Scared?” he teases, one hand brushing down your side, light as air. “It’s not too late to run, babygirl.”

You shoot him a look, climbing back over his lap, one knee on either side of his hips.

“Scared?” you echo, voice low, warm, hungry. “No. I’m fucking starving.”

His groan is ragged, full of heat. And then you lower yourself, slowly, your soaked cunt meeting the wet spot already forming on his boxers. The fabric drags against your folds, heat against heat, and both of you feel it.

He sucks in a sharp breath the second you settle on him.

“Fuck—” he exhales. “You’re soaking me.”

You smile against his throat, rolling your hips once, slowly. A moan catches in your throat as your clit drags perfectly over the pressure of him, both of you desperate already.

He grips your hips tighter this time, grounding you, guiding you without taking over.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice thick. “Ride it. Nice and slow.”

And so you do.

You grind down on him in a slow rhythm, pressing deep into the heat of his body, his length solid beneath the damp fabric. You can feel how soaked both of you are now, his underwear stained with precum and your slick.

Each roll of your hips sends sparks up your spine, pleasure building again in lazy waves. Chan’s head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as he groans deep in his chest.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasps. “And I'm still fucking clothed.”

You kiss him again, open-mouthed and messy, grinding down harder this time, and the way he whimpers into your mouth makes you clench. His hands are all over you, gripping your ass, your thighs, sliding up your spine like he can’t get enough of touching you.

“Baby,” he rasps, voice rough, “take them off.”

You don’t even hesitate.

Your fingers slip between your bodies, and you hook them into the waistband of his underwear, eyes locked on his as you drag the fabric down his hips. His cock is flushed, thick, glistening with precum. He’s hard and heavy against your skin now, and your mouth actually falls open at the sight of him.

Chan watches your face closely, breath shallow, chest rising and falling.

“Still not scared?” he murmurs.

You shake your head slowly, lifting yourself just enough to position over him again, your slick folds brushing along the length of his shaft now, bare to bare. The sensation makes both of you moan at once.

“No,” you whisper. “Not scared. Just… needy.”

You start to move again, hips rolling forward in a slow, torturous grind, your clit dragging along the underside of his cock, spreading your wetness all over him.

“Fuck,” Chan groans, hands trembling where they grip your waist. “You’re gonna make me come like this.”

His cock twitches beneath you, leaking even more as you keep moving, slick and soft, never letting him inside. You’re both flushed and panting, bodies burning, but you? You won't rush it. God, you want this to last forever.

Your rhythm stays slow, purposeful. Your folds part around him with each movement, teasing him with every pass.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, eyes heavy as you watch his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his lips fall open, the way his gaze flickers between your face and where your bodies grind together.

He lets out a helpless moan, thrusting up just slightly to meet your body, but you flatten your hands on his chest, holding him down.

“Not yet,” you murmur, barely a breath.

Chan swears under his breath, eyes wild.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

You lean down, lips brushing his ear.

“No,” you breathe, grinding your wet heat over the head of his cock again, slow and deep. “I’m savoring you. When will I have another chance to grind on you like this?"

Your pace shifts, faster now, rougher, the wet drag of your folds over his cock becoming messier, louder, filthier. You moan shamelessly with each roll of your hips, chasing the friction as your clit catches the head of him over and over again.

Chan doesn’t answer.

He just stares up at you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow, his hands digging into your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. His jaw clenches, chest heaving. He bites his bottom lip hard, like he’s trying not to lose it.

You can feel how close he is. How much he's trying not to move. Trying not to flip you, thrust into you, ruin the slow burn you built.

But he’s barely hanging on.

And then you stop. Just like that.

His eyes snap open, breath catching, and before he can ask why, before he can beg, you lift your hips just enough, angle your body, and push him in.

Slow. Stretching. Full. Hot.

His cock slides into you and your breath stutters from the fullness, from the perfect way he fills you.

“Fucking— Jesus,” Chan chokes out, eyes wide, head falling back with a low, guttural moan. “You didn’t even—fuck—warn me.”

You sink all the way down, walls clenching around him tight and wet, and the moment you bottom out, you both freeze.

You’re panting, shaking, overwhelmed.

He’s already wrecked.

He can’t even speak.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, hands trembling now where they hold you. “You... you feel unreal. You’re so fucking tight.”

You roll your hips once, slow and deep, and his whole body arches off the bed.

“Baby, please,” he groans. “You’re really gonna kill me.”

But you're not rushing. Now that he’s inside, you want to feel everything. You shift again, your walls fluttering around him as you start to move, just enough to make him whimper. His hands are gripping you now like he’s scared he’ll fall apart without you anchoring him.

He’s not in control, you are.

And he’s absolutely losing his mind.

You keep him deep inside as your hips start to roll, slow, deliberate, grinding rather than thrusting. It’s not just about moving; it’s about feeling. About dragging every inch of him against your soaked walls, over every nerve that’s already on fire.

You press your palms to his chest and roll your hips forward, a slow, sinuous grind that makes him pulse inside you. Then you rock back, letting the head of his cock rub right where you’re sensitive, your breath catching hard.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice wrecked.

Because it’s too good.

Because you could fuck him fast and fall apart in seconds, but you don’t want to. You want to last. To memorize every stretch, every twitch, every broken sound he makes when he’s buried in you like this.

Chan is beneath you, jaw clenched, eyes dark and burning as he watches the way your body moves over his. His hands slide up your waist, trembling slightly, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs.

You do it again, hips forward, hips back, a slow drag, deep and hard. His cock presses against that sweet spot inside and you gasp, your thighs shaking as you fight the urge to speed up.

“Oh, f-fuck, you feel—” you start, but can’t finish.

Because the words won’t come. Your body’s too full, your mind too foggy. So you just keep moving.

Another roll. Another moan. Another slow drag of your soaked heat around his cock.

And Chan is unraveling.

His hands grip your hips again, fingertips digging into your skin, holding you in place as his breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts.

“You’re— Oh, fuck, babygirl—” he grits out, hips bucking up once, just enough to push deeper.

You both moan at the same time.

Then your hands are in his hair, tugging, and your lips are at his ear.

“If I move faster,” you whisper, desperate, “I’m gonna come.”

Chan’s hands slide up your spine. He cups the back of your neck and pulls your forehead to his, his voice breaking as he says, "Good. I wanna feel it.”

But still, you stay slow. Still, you grind. Still, you make him feel every aching second of being inside you.

You’re soaked. Warm. Clenching. Every tiny movement sends sparks straight through your core.

You roll your hips again, a little deeper, a little firmer, and Chan swears violently, head falling back.

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.

“Do you feel how wet you made me?”

“Yes, fuck, baby, I feel all of you—”

You squeeze around him once, just to prove it, and he chokes out your name. And then, just then, you shift your hips back and begin to build a rhythm. Still slow. Still grinding. But deeper now. Sharper. Enough to make his thighs flex beneath you, enough to make your toes curl.

The pace is changing.

The tension is rising.

You’re both so close.

And you? You can’t hold back anymore.

The slow, teasing grind has your body trembling, your breath ragged, and the fire building inside your chest is too much to ignore. You want more, harder, faster, deeper.

With a low, desperate moan, you push down harder with your hips and start to ride him faster.

Your movements sharpen, no longer lazy rolls, but quick, controlled thrusts that press him fully inside you every time. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you set the rhythm, each bump and roll sending jolts of pleasure through your nerve endings.

His hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to hold you close, and you want that. You want him to feel how much you’re giving, how much you need him.

The heat between you is suffocating. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead as you bounce harder, faster, every slick slap of skin on skin driving you wild.

You feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot, the head of his cock hitting deeper, brushing your walls in ways that make your knees weak.

Your hips rock forward in rapid, rhythmic motions, slow enough that you can feel every inch of him, but fast enough that the burning pressure in your core sharpens into a delicious ache.

“Fuck, Chan,” you gasp, biting your lip, “You’re so... so good.”

His breath hitches, voice rough as he groans your name.

“Holy shit, you’re wrecking me, baby.”

You squeeze your thighs together, grinding down onto him, your soaked folds slick against his skin, and he lets out a ragged moan, hips thrusting up involuntarily to meet your pace.

The room is filled with the sound of your gasps, moans, and the wet slap of your bodies moving together.

You’re lost in the sensation, riding him harder, the sweet burn building rapidly as you edge closer to the edge.

Your hands clutch his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as you push your limits, faster and faster, your breath hitching with every movement.

Chan’s hips jerk, a deep growl rumbling from his chest, and you know he’s close, so are you.

And neither of you want to stop.

Your thighs burn from how hard you’re riding him, from how tight you’re gripping his sides, knees pressing into the mattress as your hips roll with fierce, frantic need.

Every time you sink down, you feel the thick head of his cock hit that spot inside you that makes your vision spark, and your breath catches on a soft, choked moan. You swear you can feel him everywhere, stretching you open, throbbing deep, thick veins dragging against your walls in the most perfect way.

He’s watching you, eyes glazed over with heat, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts beneath you.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he groans, voice low and ragged.

You tilt your hips forward on the next grind, gasping when your clit brushes the base of him, slick and swollen and aching. It’s messy now, the sound of you taking him echoing through the room, skin on skin, wet and sharp and so filthy you could cry.

“Fuck, Chan,” you whimper, and your voice cracks around it, the sound raw and desperate.

He moans your name back like it hurts, like it’s everything. His fingers dig into your waist again, steadying you as your pace falters for just a moment, because the pleasure is too much, and he knows it.

“Right there?” he pants, lifting his hips to meet your next grind. “That’s the spot, isn’t it, baby?”

You nod, eyes squeezing shut, jaw slack, mouth open around a breathless cry as you move harder. Faster.

You don’t bounce, not now. You’re rolling your hips with long, deep, dragging thrusts, soaking him, grinding your swollen folds over the base of his cock every time you bottom out. You chase friction. You chase that burn.

You’re soaked, it’s leaking down your thighs, slicking the space between you, coating his cock, his stomach, his hands when he runs them down your ass to squeeze, to help you move.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re fucking soaked for me. Come for me, baby. Do it, let go.”

You nod, broken, because your release is right there. You can feel it, heat building in your belly, tight and electric. If you let go now, you’ll fall apart completely.

But you still fight it. You slow for half a second. Grind down hard, then back again. You want it to last. Still want to feel everything.

You’re panting, dizzy, forehead pressed to his, eyes wide and glassy. Your lips are red and parted, chest flushed. His hands grip your ass again, then slide up your spine like he’s grounding himself on your body, like he needs every inch of your skin under his hands or he’ll lose it.

“Don't forger to say it,” he pants again. “Say my fucking name when you come.”

You nod.

You will.

And then it hits. Hard.

It crashes into you like a wave, a violent, shaking wreck of a climax that tears through your whole body without mercy.

You cry out, not just his name, but a string of whimpers and curses, syllables falling apart on your tongue.

“Chan— oh my god—fuck—”

Your thighs tremble as your orgasm pulses through you, wave after wave ripping from your core, and your hips lose their rhythm, all you can do now is grind, desperate and messy, soaking him, your slick making everything slippery and loud and so fucking filthy.

Your nails rake down his chest. Your head drops to his shoulder, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word left in your brain.

He holds you through it, hands locked on your ass, your waist, steadying you as your whole body jerks and clenches around him. His cock throbs inside you, thick and twitching, and he’s panting, groaning, barely holding on.

“Jesus fuck, babygirl—” he growls, his voice tight, raw, completely undone. “You’re squeezing me so tight—fuck—you feel like heaven.”

You try to lift your hips again, but your body’s too wrecked. Too overstimulated. All you can do is stay slumped against him, letting the aftershocks ripple through you while his hands roam your back and his cock pulses inside your still-clenching walls.

You came so hard, you’re still shaking. Still moaning his name. Still dripping down his length.

And Chan? Well, he's fucking desperate.

You're still trembling on top of him, breath shallow, body limp with the weight of your orgasm. Your skin is damp with sweat, your thighs soaked, your muscles too soft to move.

He groans, low and desperate, and in one quick motion, he pulls out of you, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Your slick clings to his cock, glistening, dripping down his length and his stomach.

“Fuck—” he growls, voice guttural now. “You’re my fucking dream.”

You blink up at him, wrecked, and then you watch, eyes wide, as he wraps a fist around himself. He strokes hard. Fast. Frantic.

Like he’s been holding back this whole time, and now it’s snapping. The pressure, the need, the pure hunger for release. His hand is a blur, slick from you, pumping over his length with punishing speed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans again, head tipped back, lips parted, muscles tight. “You got me this fucking desperate.”

You moan, half from the oversensitivity, half from the sight of him: flushed and wild and so close he’s falling apart right in front of you.

His abs flex with every pump. His other hand fists your waist. His cock is flushed deep red, leaking so much it drips onto his hand, and his movements get more messy, more needy.

“Gonna come—” he gasps. “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”

And he does.

With a loud, broken moan, his body jerks beneath you and thick ropes of cum spill across his stomach and chest, messy and hot and endless. His fist keeps stroking through it, wringing out every last drop as his hips twitch beneath you, his breath ragged, every muscle clenched.

It’s feral. Unfiltered. He groans your name through his teeth.

And when he finally slows, hand still lazily stroking himself through the comedown, he blinks up at you with a ruined kind of smile.

“Look what you did to me,” he breathes, voice shot and full of awe. “Fuck.”

You finally let your body give in, limbs heavy as you slide off of him and curl into his side. The heat still clings to your skin, your pulse still not quite settled, but your mind drifts somewhere quieter now. Somewhere slower.

He turns to look at you, eyes hazy, lips swollen, hair a complete mess. But it’s the way he’s looking at you that gets you. Like you’re not just someone he brought back to a hotel room after a show. Like you’re something more than that.

You swallow, breath shaky. “Fuck,” you whisper, eyes on the ceiling before you glance back at him. “I didn’t want it to end.”

He exhales softly, then pulls you closer, pressing a hand to your bare waist. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You blink at him again, and for some reason, your chest tightens, just a little. His gaze flickers over your face like he sees it too, the shift, the ache, the unspoken wish for more time. He leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, lingering. Like he's holding on.

When he finally pulls back, his lips still brush yours as he speaks.

“So…” he whispers, voice low and warm. “When’s the next concert you’ll come to?”

"I guess all of them. I guess... I'd do anything to see my bias again"

"Yeah. I know you would, babygirl."

taglist @velvetmoonlght @anjian03 @nightmarenyxx <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

+++ authors note: holy shit. that babygirl message on chan's bubble made me fucking lose my mind today. this man fucking drives me crazy. I’m delusional af.

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aphodeity7 · 7 days ago

Text

You gotta wonder if Suirei would have even reached adulthood if not for Loulan Shisui.

Shisui learned how to attend on nobles really well, to the point that she effortlessly made connections as a masseuse, in her mother's household.

This being Lady Shenmei's household, it means she also took her 'fair' share of abuse, abuse that otherwise might have gone to Suirei, who was clearly being treated as a whipping boy on top of everything else Shenmei put her through.

From tending to her as Loulan to enduring some of her abuse as Shisui, it's clear this little girl cared enough about her big sister to endure horrors she clearly didn't have to; she already figured out how to completely escape Shenmei's abuse early on. She must have stuck with this as much as ten years and, in my mind, definitely saved Suirei's life and sanity in the process.

I think she's right and wrong here. She's right that she can't stop Shenmei through passivity, but she's wrong that it was all useless. I think she has a big sister because she did.

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aphodeity7 · 8 days ago

Note

Hello! I ask you to do Bangchan as a bf please ☺️

Bangchan as a boy friend

**For entertainment purposes only — based on current energy, which may shift over time. I read with care , not assumption, and I honor what the cards reveal without judgment or distortion.**

Protective, Loyal, and All-In

(The Emperor, The Lovers, King of Wands)

Leader in Love The Emperor energy:Bangchan has a strong presence in a relationship — he naturally takes on the role of the one who protects, plans ahead, and keeps things grounded—not in a dominant way, but with a protective kind of care. If something’s bothering you, he wants to help shoulder it. He gives structure when life feels unsteady. He’s emotionally responsible, never careless with your heart. He wants to be the kind of partner you can lean on emotionally, mentally, and practically.

Leads with Quiet Confidence: King of Wands warmth and charisma. He’s magnetic, reliable, and steady the kind of guy you can lean on, who’ll take the lead when you’re too tired to. But he never overpowers — he empowers.

When He Chooses, It’s Serious: The Lovers card says he won’t get into a relationship lightly. Once he’s chosen someone, that’s it. He’s deeply committed, body and soul.

Emotionally Grounded but Still Sweet

(Page of Cups, Two of Pentacles, Nine of Pentacles)

Sweet, Boyish Love Language: With Page of Cups, he brings a gentleness that’s unexpectedly tender. Expect soft compliments, warm hugs, inside jokes, maybe even little gifts or notes. His affection is creative, innocent, and deeply personal. He’s the type to remember tiny details about you — what you like, what soothes you, what makes you laugh.

Balancing Act: He might juggle a lot (work, team, self-pressure), but he’ll try hard to keep the relationship a priority. You’d feel how much he wants to be present, even if he gets overwhelmed.

Proud of You, But Never Controlling: He loves having an independent partner. He admires strength in others and wouldn’t try to hold you back — he’d encourage your growth just as much as his own.

Deep Inner World, Rarely Shown

(High Priestess, Eight of Swords rx)

Private Heart: He has a lot going on emotionally, but he keeps much of it to himself. You’d see glimpses — quiet moments of vulnerability — but he doesn’t like burdening others with his struggles.

Healing Through Connection: Love with the right person helps him feel free. When he trusts you, he opens up more — but it takes time. His walls aren’t because of you, they’re built from pressure and responsibility.

Humble, Thoughtful, but Self-Critical

(Six of Wands rx, Eight of Swords rx)

Doesn’t Crave Praise, Just Wants to Be Enough: Even if he’s achieving a lot on the outside, he might quietly wonder if he’s doing enough for you emotionally. He wants to be the kind of partner that adds to your life.

Sensitive About Failure: If there’s a fight or misunderstanding, he might go quiet — not out of avoidance, but because he’s hard on himself. He needs reassurance that it’s okay to not be perfect.

Bright, Uplifting, and Joy-Oriented

(The Sun, King of wands)

Loves to See You Happy: He lights up when you light up. He’d go out of his way to bring joy into your day, whether it’s sending you a funny meme, cooking something for you, or making time when it’s hard. His presence would feel safe and sunny — a little emotional shelter from the world.“Your joy is my joy. I’ll stand by you in your dark days and your brightest ones.”

Affectionate and Passionate: There’s fire and fun in this connection — King of Wands gives him a passionate, flirty side, especially when he’s comfortable. Expect warm touches, deep eye contact, and bursts of playful energy.

Overall Bang Chan as a boyfriend is a steady flame not loud, but constant. He leads with loyalty, listens with intuition, and protects with care. His love is warm, emotionally grounded, and soulfully intentional the kind that brings peace, depth, and joy all at once. He doesn’t want a perfect relationship — he wants a real one. One where you both grow, both heal, and both feel safe being exactly who you are.

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aphodeity7 · 9 days ago

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youtube

Please cry with me some more. Maomao’s Soliloquy.

The flowers you like have bloomed again in the usual place this year. The sound of those insects, which we listened to carefully while standing side by side, has also started. You used to listen closely and catch even my small voice. The destination hasn't changed, but where does the voice that disappears into the air go? Just a nod is enough, I want to hear it. I want to see your gently nodding smile. Without you, any word is just a soliloquy.

If I had noticed your hidden feelings that day, could I still have been in the world of dialogue between the two of us?

Even if the smile, the universal remedy, disappears, breathing continues. It will never fully heal, but the memories will become scabs. Even beyond the days of looking for the missing footsteps, I still can't manage to tame the nocturnal crybaby.

Knowing you for the first time allowed me to be myself. Even such important feelings, I wasn't able to convey them here, still unable to meet your gaze. Still now, I search for words that can be close to your heart, that day, in a world without answers. I blindly believed that the same tomorrow would pour down equally once again. The you who can't lie said "See you again" and waved, and I continue to believe in that image.

Just listen with a nod… I want to meet your gently nodding smile

Without you, any words are just mere monologue

I'm waiting without saying "goodbye" even if it’s hard,

Someday I want to give you a "welcome home" while looking into your eyes…

(This is a very rough Google-mirror translation, but you get the gist.)

PS:

Natsu Hyuuga tweeting this.

In the latter half, it was mentioned that the meaning of the theme song becomes clearer, but how about Yuuki-san's reading for the answer?

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aphodeity7 · 9 days ago

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She looks so beautiful smiling it hurts

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aphodeity7 · 9 days ago

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The identities of loulan and shisui are so interesting and heartbreaking to me. It's like an eclipse, except she can't escape either of them. You can tell that she's conflicted when Maomao calls her shisui, years of torment by her mother forcing herself to remain as loulan, while the freedom and happiness she felt as shisui fights back. There's a trace of sadness when she turns to face her, as if she knows that she truly cannot escape her fate. She smiles anyways, trying desperately to gain back the joy she felt as shisui, even if it's mere scraps. It's especially devastating when you take into context the scene after this. She knows the act she committed, and yet, still yearns for maomao's affection.

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aphodeity7 · 10 days ago

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Okay, so I finished LN4 the other day, and then I decided I wanted to check out the english translation of Season 2's second ending song.

SEASON 2/LN 4 SPOILERS

And holy fuck I have been converted to a full time Shisui/Loulan x Maomao shipper. Let's go doomed lesbians

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aphodeity7 · 10 days ago

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so. i am going to ramble about Hitorigoto (the 2nd ending song in season 2). because it is INSANE

LN4 & S2 SPOILERS

In our usual place, the flowers you loved have bloomed again this year The sound of those insects we used to listen side by side has started once more You leaned in to hear even my slightest voice The address never changed but where does my floating voice in the air end up?

Well, this is obviously about Maomao and Shisui. The insects we used to listen? The flowers you loved? How "you leaned in to hear my slightest voice" and how Shisui is constantly physically close with Maomao (I remember it mostly after the kidnapping but it probably happened before too)? How the person is still calling that person by the same name but this time, there's no answer? Like Maomao yearning for Shisui?

Just give me a simple reply, I want to see that gentle, nodding smile again No matter what I say, without you, it's all just talking to myself If only I had noticed the feelings you hid that day, maybe even now We could still be in that little world of just us two

Shisui's carefree smile, the only time she didn't have to act because she was free from the constraints of Loulan, when she was with Maomao and Xiaolan. "If only I had noticed the feelings you hid" if only Maomao would have looked deeper, realized Shisui was acting, or realized the truth somehow. If only.

Even if your all-healing smile disappears, my breathing goes on The pain may never fully heal, but I let memories scab over the wounds Even as time goes by, I keep searching for footsteps that weren't there The crybaby in me that only comes out at night, still I can't tame it

Even if Shisui is gone, Maomao lives. She never forgets, but she still breathes. Still remembers. But she still can't stop herself from searching for her.

It was only after I met you that I finally became myself, and even these precious feelings I couldn't give them to you while looking in your eyes, I'm still here Even now, I'm searching for the words I should've said to reach your heart In this answerless world, I keep searching

Loulan only became herself after meeting Maomao. Even if she couldn't convey everything she wanted the way she wanted, she's still alive. Still with Maomao in her heart.

Maomao knows its futile, there are no answers yet she keeps searching. Searching for hints of Shisui being alive still.

I naively believed that the same tomorrow would fall over everyone equally You, who couldn't lie, waved and said "See you", I still choose to believe in that moment Just give me a simple reply, I want to see that gentle, nodding smile again No matter what I say, without you, it's all just talking to myself

Maomao was never naive, but she chose to be ignorant about the things around her didn't she? She never looked deeper into Shisui, or listened to Jinshi...

When Maomao gave Jinshi's hairpin to Loulan at that moment because she wanted her to live, despite Loulan walking to her demise.

Even if it hurts, I'm still waiting without saying goodbye, because one day In our little world of just us two, I want to simply say to you "Welcome home" as I look into your eyes and send those words your way

Isn't this the reason Maomao gave Shisui the hairpin? Because she didn't want her to die, because she wanted to talk to her again, because she didn't want to say goodbye?

Anyway. I am going insane about these two.

Doomed yuri save me, doomed yuri

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aphodeity7 · 10 days ago

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wolfchan PJ's

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pairing: bang chan x fem reader

word count: 3.4K

contains: +18, idol!chan, bf!chan, fluff, praise, soft!chan, lots of kisses, nipple play, biting, fingering (f receiving), mentions of masturbation, unprotected sex (don't, pls), chan loves and misses reader SO MUCH!!!!

authors note: english is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in advance +++ requests are open! :)

⋆｡°✩

summary: When Bang Chan comes home after weeks away on tour, all he wants is to be close to you, and finding you in cozy Wolfchan pajamas? Completely melts him. The two of you spend the evening wrapped in each other, sharing soft kisses, whispered confessions, and the kind of quiet intimacy that only comes with deep love. As the night unfolds, the kisses linger, time seems to slow down. Until… Chan gently asks if he can take things further. And you nod. Of course you nod.

!!!! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

⋆｡°✩

The apartment door clicked open with a soft beep, followed by the familiar thud of Bang Chan's boots against the floor. He let out a quiet sigh as he stepped inside, shaking off the day's exhaustion like a coat at the door. He was wearing a black cap and hood, and he was so tired, so sleepy, his eyes were almost closed.

“Baby? I’m home,” he called softly, not wanting to disturb you if you were resting.

The faint sound of music drifted from the bedroom, and the scent of your favorite body wash lingered in the air: warm, sweet, comforting. Chan smiled to himself. You had just showered. He padded quietly down the hall, loosening the buttons on his jacket, already imagining the feel of your arms around him.

Then he saw you.

You stood in front of the dresser, gently combing through your damp hair, completely unaware of the way his heart just stopped. You were dressed in a pair of fuzzy, navy blue Wolfchan pajamas, the ones he thought no one actually bought. The top had wolfchan's floppy ears and round face, and the matching pajama bottoms were decorated with little paw prints.

Chan froze in the doorway, eyes wide, lips twitching into a helpless smile.

“Oh, wow. You’re… wearing that?” he asked, voice filled with disbelief and delight.

You jumped slightly, turning to him with a sheepish laugh. “You weren’t supposed to see me yet! I was going to surprise you.”

Chan slowly walked over, already giggling, not even bothering to take off his jacket fully, letting it slide from his shoulders and fall onto the floor.

“That,” he said, pointing at your outfit, “is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.”

You giggled, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. “I figured I’d wear it as a joke. But… it’s kind of cozy, actually.”

Chan wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his face into your shoulder. “Ugh, you’re not allowed to wear anything else to bed ever again,” he mumbled, his voice muffled in your damp hair.

You leaned back into him with a smile. “Even if it’s got your skzoo's face all over it?”

“Especially if it’s got my skzoo's face all over it,” he said, pulling you tighter. “Now I get to cuddle my girl and Wolfchan at the same time. Dream come true.”

You laughed. And Chan didn’t let you go.

His arms stayed wrapped firmly around your waist as he swayed you gently side to side, like the two of you were dancing to the soft music still playing in the background. His cheek rested against yours, warm and a little stubbly from a long day.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered, his voice low, the kind that made your heart ache in the sweetest way.

You turned slightly in his hold, just enough to meet his eyes. They were tired, puffy from travel, a little red from long hours, but full of something soft and unguarded. The kind of love that doesn’t need big gestures to be real.

“I missed you too,” you said, cupping his face in your hands. “You’ve been working so hard…”

Chan let out a breath, half a sigh, half a laugh. “I know. Every day I was counting down the hours until I could come home to this. To you. And now you’re standing here in Wolfchan pjs like you just unlocked a new level of adorable.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Well, I figured if I couldn’t see you on tour, I’d keep the next best version of you around.”

“Oh, so I’ve been replaced?” he gasped, mock-offended.

“Temporarily.”

He laughed and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “I’ll accept that for tonight.”

Before you could tease him back, he scooped you up bridal-style without warning, causing you to yelp in surprise.

“Channie!”

“I need to hold you properly,” he said, walking you both toward the couch. “Couch cuddles. Now. It’s mandatory.”

You clung to him playfully, still giggling, and he dropped onto the couch with you in his lap, arms wrapping around you like he couldn’t quite believe you were together again. He nestled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like your presence alone could calm every nerve in his body.

“Mm,” he hummed against your skin. “You smell like peaches.”

“Because I used your body wash.”

He pulled back, eyes wide. “Mine!?”

“You left it here last time and I missed you. Don’t act shocked.”

Chan groaned dramatically and pulled you closer, if that was even possible. “Why you keep getting more adorable?.”

You tucked yourself under his chin, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. His heart slowed to a peaceful rhythm, like your touch was the balm he didn’t even realize he needed.

“I kept your spot warm,” you whispered.

“Of course you did. You always do.”

There was a long, comfortable silence after that, just breathing, the weight of bodies relaxed against each other, fingers tracing lazy shapes on arms and backs.

Then Chan lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, one by one.

“I don’t care where I go or how far I travel,” he murmured. “You’re always home.”

You looked up at him, your heart full to bursting. “Will you stay a little longer this time?”

He didn’t answer right away, he just leaned in and kissed you softly. Not rushed. Not heated. Just pure and tender and full of everything he couldn’t say with words. The kind of kiss that whispered, I love you, I love you, I love you, between every brush of lips.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed like he was savoring the moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I just want to be right here.”

The two of you stayed tangled together, wrapped in each other and a fuzzy blanket, with the soft rhythm of Chan’s heartbeat beneath your cheek and his fingers tracing slow, loving patterns along your spine.

The apartment had grown quiet. Just the soft hum of the city outside, the faint ticking of the clock, and the slow rhythm of breath shared between two people who hadn’t seen each other in far too long.

You were still wrapped in Chan’s arms, your legs tangled with his under the blanket. At some point, the TV had been left playing in the background, but neither of you were paying attention. Your focus was on the gentle way his fingers traced lazy circles against your waist, the brush of his lips against your temple every few minutes, like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

You tilted your head up, and he was already watching you. His gaze was soft, almost reverent. You couldn’t help but smile.

“What?” you whispered.

Chan shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Nothing. Just… I really missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you replied, your voice just as soft.

He leaned in, and you met him halfway.

The kiss was slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that made the world shrink down to just the two of you. No urgency. No destination. Just the quiet pleasure of being close again.

It lingered, again and again, lips brushing gently, fingers grazing skin, shared breaths mingling in the stillness. He kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your neck. Whispered your name. Told you how beautiful you looked. How much he had thought about you. How you were the one thing that got him through the lonely nights on tour.

And you whispered things back. About how empty the bed felt without him. How much you missed the sound of his laugh. How safe you felt with him now, how it felt like you could breathe again just being here like this, in his arms.

The kisses deepened, but they never lost that softness. It wasn’t about wanting more. Not yet. Just being together. Relearning the shape of each other. Letting your hearts speak without words.

The kisses went on forever.

At some point, his hand began to move, slowly. Tentatively. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His fingers brushed your hip, your waist, then slowly slipped under the hem of your shirt, just resting against your bare skin like he was asking a question without speaking it aloud.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t flinch. You just kept kissing him, your hand sliding down his arm until it found his wrist, and then you gripped it. Not to hold him back, but to pull him closer. To let him know, without words: You can touch me. You can have all of me.

Chan froze for half a second, breath hitching in surprise. Then he leaned his forehead to yours, and you could see it in his eyes, the relief, the want, the love. All of it.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. Your gaze answered for you, soft and open.

So Chan moved.

He shifted slightly, guiding you back into the cushions, careful like you were something breakable. His mouth found your neck again, slower now, trailing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone while his hand moved up under your shirt, tracing along the soft skin just beneath your tit but not quite touching yet.

“You always wear this Wolfchan pjs?” he whispered against your throat, voice a little breathless.

You giggled, heart fluttering as his hands finally cupped your tits, warm and steady. “Only when I miss you.”

He kissed your smile. “Hm, is that so?”

His thumb moved in slow, teasing circles in your nipples, and his kisses deepened again, hotter, but still controlled. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring.

“Tell me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, “what else did you do while I was gone?”

Your breath hitched as he kissed lower, lifting your shirt gradually with each movement. One of his hands slipped behind your thigh, gripping it gently, encouraging you to open up beneath him.

“Missed you” you whispered.

He smiled against your skin. “That’s not an answer.” His hand slid further down, resting over your hip, fingers brushing the waistband of your pajama shorts. “Did you think about me?” he asked, his voice soft, low.

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Every day.”

His mouth hovered above your chest now as he slowly pulled your shirt over your head, baring you to the soft glow of the room. His gaze swept over you, reverent. “I thought about you too, baby” he said. “Every night. I kept picturing this.”

You arched gently into his touch as his lips closed around your nipple, slow and careful, his hand still stroking over your waist like he needed to touch every part of you at once. His tongue swirled, teasing, then flattened with a hot pressure that made your breath hitch. He sucked your tit gently, then again, firmer this time, drawing a soft gasp from your lips. The warmth of his mouth, the way he groaned low in his throat, sent a pulse straight between your legs.

He grazed his teeth over your sensitive nipple, bitting it, just enough to make you jolt beneath him, your fingers tightening in his hair. Then he soothed it with his tongue, lapping slow, sensual strokes before his lips closed around it again. His free hand moved to your other tit, thumb brushing over your nipple in lazy, rhythmic circles. The contrast made you squirm, warm mouth on one side, teasing fingers on the other, both driving you wild.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked. Then he bit again, a little firmer this time, just a soft pinch of his teeth that made your hips lift off the couch. “I missed watching you fall apart like this.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark with affection. “Did you sleep in our bed while I was away?”

You were breathless, the ache between your legs growing. “Yeah.”

Your thighs pressed together, desperate for friction. He noticed, of course he did. His hand slipped lower, sliding across your stomach, fingertips brushing just under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He didn’t move further, not yet. Just let his fingers rest there, just close enough to make your breath catch.

You gasped, instinctively lifting your hips into his touch.

“Did you sleep in my shirts too?” he whispered, his lips grazing your jaw as his fingers pressed more firmly, working you with slow, steady pressure.

“Sometimes,” you breathed. “Smelled like you. Had to feel something yours in me somehow”

“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing you hard again.

He slipped his hand slowly beneath your waistband, touching you fully, skin to skin. He groaned softly at how warm and wet you already were, brushing over your folds.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So soft... I missed this. I missed you.”

You whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders as his fingers dipped inside you slowly, one at first, then two, pushing deep, curling gently, stroking with care. His pace was patient, controlled, his thumb rubbing soft, deliberate circles over your clit that made your legs tremble. Every movement was like he was learning you all over again, memorizing every sound, every shiver.

And still, he talked to you. Soft, breathy questions between kisses.

“Did you touch yourself while I was gone?”

You nodded, lips parting. “Yeah.”

His smile curved against your mouth. “Thinking about me?”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Always you.”

“Yeah?” he breathed, his fingers moving a little faster between your legs, curling deep. “And did it feel this good?”

You shook your head, gasping as his thumb pressed tighter against your clit, with a very precise rhythm, practiced. “Nothing feels like you.”

He groaned at that, low and genuine, the sound vibrating against your skin as he began kissing his way down your body, your tits, your nipples, his lips lingering as he bit again, making you arch beneath him. Then his tongue was there again, swirling, soothing, only to repeat the teasing all over.

“Fuck, I missed your body,” he muttered. “Missed the way you sound when you’re falling apart for me.”

You whined, thighs parting more for him instinctively, greedy for everything he was giving you.

Chan was fingering you slowly, and your ache was only getting bigger. Your hips started to rock against his hand, need building, burning, cresting.

“God, baby,” he whispered, watching your face. “You’re so wet for me.” His voice was low, reverent. His eyes didn’t leave yours, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of your pleasure.

You were biting your lip as your body clenched around his fingers.

"I need you,” he said, voice thick. “Wanna be inside you, wanna feel you wrapped around me.”

“Chan, please… I-, I need it too”

“Yeah?” he murmured, easing his hand away. “I’ve got you.”

His hips were already pressing against yours, the hard length of him straining beneath his sweats. He didn’t rush, didn’t push. Just waited, eyes locked with yours. Then his hand slid down to push your pants off completely, baring you to him, and you felt his hips shift as he tugged down his own pants, his cock hard, already leaking for you.

He lined himself up between your thighs, pressing against you but not pushing in yet, just looking at you like he needed to see your soul first.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Being inside you again. Feeling all of you.”

You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Then do it, please, Channie”

He groaned, soft and broken, and leaned down to kiss you as he slowly pushed in.

Your breath caught.

The stretch was immediate, thick, hot, overwhelming in the best way, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders as he sank into you. He didn’t rush it, didn’t slam forward; he gave you every second to feel the way he filled you, your walls clenching around him, adjusting to the pressure, the weight, the perfect fit. His forehead pressed to yours, his lips brushing yours as he breathed, “You feel so good. You always so good for me.” He stilled there for a moment, foreheads still pressed together, both of you already trembling with the intensity of it.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him deeper.

When he finally started to move, it was slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that made your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting with a soft moan. He watched every expression, kissed every sound from your mouth. Each time his hips rolled forward, he angled just right to hit that spot that made you cry out for him.

And he gave it to you, all of him. You felt every part of him, not just in your body, but in your chest.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Intentional. He kissed you through it, murmuring your name.

“I missed this… I missed you.” His voice cracked slightly. “This is all I thought about. Coming home. Having you all just for me again.”

Your hands ran over his back, nails lightly dragging down his spine as your hips lifted to meet each of his thrusts. The pace was unhurried, sensual, his strokes long and deep, dragging pleasure through you slowly, making you feel everything.

“Let me hear you, baby,” The pleasure coiled tighter with every deep, rhythmic thrust, and you could feel yourself getting close, so close, but not quite there yet. “You always moan so pretty for me"

You slid a hand down your stomach, slipping it between your bodies, your fingertips brushing over your swollen clit, rubbing soft circles in time with his thrusts that made you whimper.

A gasp escaped your lips the moment you touched yourself, the added pressure sending a jolt through your entire body.

Chan’s eyes flicked down immediately, and when he saw what you were doing, something in him snapped.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough with disbelief and want. His hips faltered for a moment before picking up pace again, harder now, desperate. “You’re touching yourself? While I’m inside you?”

You moaned in response, your fingers moving in quick, tight circles, "F-fuck, don't stop, Chan, please", the friction just right, so much better with the thick weight of him thrusting deep inside you.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing your ear. “You’re so fucking cute,” he breathed, the sweetness in his tone making the next words even filthier. “So fucking sweet… and then you go and do shit like this? Touch yourself while I fuck you?”

His hand gripped your thigh tighter, pulling your leg higher up around his waist to sink in deeper. The new angle made you whimper, your fingers speeding up, chasing that edge you were tumbling toward.

“You're that desperate, baby?” he whispered, completely fixated on you, your pleasure, your touch, the way your body tightened under his. “You couldn’t wait for me to make you come, huh?”

Your lips parted, but all that came out was a broken cry of his name. You were right there.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let go. Let me feel you. Come with me inside you.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, rolling, intense, body-tightening. You clung to him, moaning his name as your walls clenched around him, and he groaned in response, kissing you hard, messy, full of need. Chan held you through it like he never wanted to let you go. Your whole body seized, head tipping back as your orgasm crashed through you, intense and blinding, your fingers working your clit even through the aftershocks.

“All those cute little smiles, those silly pajamas… and underneath all that you’re like this” his hips pushed in faster “so good for me, always taking me so well."

His thrusts grew shakier, shorter, as he chased his own release, until he buried himself deep inside you with a strangled moan, spilling into you as his body trembled against yours.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed inside you for a few seconds. You both breathless. He held you even tighter.

“I love you, baby girl” he whispered again, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You sighed, sweetly wrecked. “I love you more, Channie”

Chan chuckled softly. “Impossible.”

You stayed like that for a long while, wrapped in each other, the room still and glowing with leftover affection. And as you drifted into sleep, you felt it, the safety, the warmth, the love so deep it didn’t need anything flashy to prove it.

It was just there.

Always.

taglist @velvetmoonlght <3 (comment or dm me to be added)

+++ authors note: I had this idea on my mind since I saw an ttk edit of Chan talking about Stays in Wolfchan Pjs. Honestly, soft!chan is underrated af.

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aphodeity7 · 10 days ago

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Hi can I ask hyunjin as boyfriend?

Hyunjin Stray kids as a boyfriend

**For entertainment purposes only — based on current energy, which may shift over time. I read with care , not assumption, and I honor what the cards reveal without judgment or distortion.**

Deep-Feeling, Calm, and Emotionally Steady

(King of Cups, Strength, Queen of Pentacles)

Emotionally Present: Hyunjin would be the kind of boyfriend who quietly understands more than he says. He listens deeply, feels deeply, and doesn’t shy away from intense emotions — whether they’re his or his partner’s.He would be someone who makes you feel understood and emotionally safe, providing wise counsel and a deep sense of empathy.

Protective but Gentle: He protects with softness — he wants the person he loves to feel emotionally safe. He’ll support them through their storms without trying to control them. He’ll be the one to check in quietly when you’re not okay, to comfort you without overwhelming. He has a soft side — loyal, soothing, and emotionally steady.

Reliable in the Small Things: He’d show up through quiet acts of care — checking in, remembering little details, staying close when you’re having a hard day.

Thoughtful, Introspective, and Soft-Spoken

(The Hermit, Six of Swords)

Needs His Space Sometimes: Hyunjin has a deeply introspective side. In love, he values space to reflect, not to pull away but to stay emotionally clear.

Moves Toward Peace: He doesn’t like loud drama — if things get tense, he tries to resolve them calmly and emotionally maturely.

Emotionally Healing Presence: He’s the kind of boyfriend who helps you move forward — even when you’re hurting — with warmth, patience, and understanding.

Romantic and Creative in How He Loves

(The Magician, Eight of Pentacles, Six of Wands)

Intentional with His Effort: When he loves, he puts in real effort. He’s the type to make playlists, plan creative dates, or stay up working on something that reminds him of you.

Wants to Make You Feel Proud: He’ll want his partner to feel special beside him — not because he wants praise, but because he wants to lift them up and be someone they can count on.

Magic in the Mundane: His love language might be quiet consistency — making everyday moments feel personal, beautiful, and full of intention.

Romantic effort: You’ll see it in small gestures — the playlist he made you, a quiet “thinking of you” gift art, or working hard just to show up at your side.

Playful, Open-Hearted, and Free in Spirit

(The Fool)

Not Afraid to Fall in Love: Hyunjin has a brave heart when it comes to love. He’s not calculating — if he feels it, he follows it.

Spontaneous Joy: He’d bring lightness into the relationship — randomly dancing, sending you little surprises, or pulling you into quiet adventures.

Honors Growth: He sees love as a shared path — he’s not trying to “own” his partner, but to grow with them, side by side.

Overall Hyunjin as a boyfriend would be calm, emotionally deep, and quietly devoted. He loves with intention and depth, gives space when needed, and shows affection in thoughtful, often poetic ways. He’d be the steady warmth beside you, the quiet strength behind you, and the soft magic that reminds you how beautiful love can feel.

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aphodeity7 · 16 days ago

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Wrong Movie Ticket

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut, bestfriends to lovers, cinema porn, fingering, semi public inappropriate acts, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, riding, choking, confessions.

Word count: 6.5k

Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless retro movie night with your best friend Chan. Then the film started… and it was porn. Now you’re stuck in a dark adult cinema, horny, flustered, and sitting way too close to the man you’ve never seen that way—until now. What follows? Stolen touches, filthy tension, crossed lines, and the slowest and fastest descent into “we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Too bad neither of you wants to stop.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You didn’t think twice about asking Chan.

It was a throwaway message — a random, impulsive moment while scrolling your phone. The kind of thing only your best friend would say yes to without making it weird.

Got two free tickets to a retro film screening lol. Come with me?? Apparently it’s a surprise title.

You didn’t expect him to reply three seconds later with,

Say less. I’m already choosing snacks in my head.

And now here you were.

Shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theater that smelled like old velvet and warm popcorn, curled up in plush, oversized recliners that felt suspiciously luxurious for an indie cinema. You’d joked about it when you walked in — called it “bougie-arthouse-meets-grandma’s-living-room.”

Chan had laughed, soft and bright, and dropped his head to your shoulder for a second.

“You and your weird luck,” he’d said. “Only you would win tickets to a mystery movie night in a place that looks like it doubles as a jazz bar for ghosts.”

And you’d smiled. You always smiled when he touched you.

Now, the lights dimmed fully, and the film began with a crackle of film grain and a vintage soundtrack humming over the speakers.

At first, everything felt normal.

Old cars. Sepia tones. Awkward, exaggerated acting from a woman in a silk slip and a man with a mustache too big for his face. You sipped your drink. Chan occasionally leaned in to whisper dumb commentary in your ear, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Then the silk slip hit the floor.

You blinked.

Onscreen, the woman dropped to her knees.

“…Wait,” you said under your breath.

Chan leaned forward slightly. “Is she…?”

She was. Very much.

The theater stayed silent, but you could feel it now — the strange atmosphere. The intentionality of the recliners. The lack of teenagers. The fact that everyone was sitting in pairs. Close. Intimate.

You glanced at Chan.

He was frowning a little, eyes still fixed forward.

And then she moaned.

Loudly. Lewdly. Wet and raw.

Chan inhaled sharply, then turned to you — eyes wide with disbelief.

“Is this—?”

“Porn,” you whispered. “I think it’s porn.”

You both stared forward again.

The camera cut to the man’s face — all clenched jaw and labored breathing as she took him deeper into her throat.

You sat frozen, drink in your hand, heart suddenly thudding like you were caught watching something you shouldn’t.

Chan cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.

“We should… we could leave,” he said, but his voice was strained.

You couldn’t look at him. “Mhm. Could.”

But you didn’t move. Neither did he and the screen only got filthier.

There was something hypnotic about it — not the porn itself, but the setting. The heavy quiet of the room. The creak of recliners. The small, breathy gasps from one or two corners of the theater where other pairs sat just a little too close.

Chan shifted again beside you, and this time you felt it — his thigh brushing yours.

He wasn’t pulling away. Neither were you. And your chest was rising faster now. You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not with the screen soaked in moans and movement and sweat, and the awareness of him sitting right there, warm and silent and way too close.

You didn’t look at him.

But you wondered If he was feeling it too. You didn’t dare move.

Not because you were afraid — but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you did.

The screen lit up with flesh. Grainy but real. A woman on her back now, legs spread wide, breathless under a man twice her size. He fucked her slow and deep, long strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.

The audio was soft but obscene.

You swallowed hard.

You hadn’t meant to watch porn with your best friend. Hadn’t meant to sit this close, thighs touching, breaths syncing like your bodies had somehow started responding to the same rhythm pulsing through the room.

The theater was still mostly quiet, but… not entirely.

There were sounds. Small, barely-there ones. A stifled moan from the far right corner. A squeak of leather from behind you. Someone shifting in a way that didn’t sound like they were just trying to get comfortable.

Your skin prickled.

And beside you, Chan exhaled. A little shaky.

You finally turned your head toward him. He looked… tense. Eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tight, one hand braced on his thigh like he was deliberately keeping it there.

You whispered, “Chan…”

He blinked, tore his gaze from the screen, and looked at you.

His eyes were darker now.

His lips parted, breath shallow.

“I didn’t…” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would actually be—”

“I know,” you breathed. “Me neither.”

A beat passed. Neither of you looked away.

The sounds from the movie grew louder — wet, rhythmic, raw. Her moans echoing, punctuated by filthy dialogue that made your stomach flip.

Chan’s eyes dropped to your lips for just a second.

Just long enough to make your breath catch.

And when they lifted again — slowly — his tongue darted across his bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked. Quiet. Gentle.

You nodded before you even thought about it.

But he didn’t look convinced.

Your knees were still touching. Bare skin brushing denim. The air between you was thick enough to chew.

You tried to shift your attention back to the screen — to pretend none of this was happening.

But all you could think about was the way Chan was not moving away.

The way your skin still tingled from that single look.

The way your body had started to thrum in time with the soundtrack.

You heard her moan again — a long, high cry that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Chan noticed. You knew he noticed.

His fingers twitched against his own leg. And then he let out a quiet, almost silent laugh — like he couldn’t believe what was happening either.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Mhm.”

And then — softer — he added, “You’re warm.”

You turned to look at him fully now. “What?”

His eyes were on your bare thigh, where it pressed against his. His hand hovered just above it.

“You’re warm,” he said again, like it meant something else. Like he wasn’t just talking about skin temperature.

You held his gaze. And for the first time all night, something shifted. Your pulse spiked but he didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But his hand stayed there. Hovering. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his palm. Like he was waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.

Your breath hitched.

And Chan’s jaw clenched again — like holding back was costing him something.

“I should…” he started.

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because neither of you really knew how this was supposed to go anymore.

You tried to shake it off.

The porn, the glances, the way Chan looked at your thighs like they were saying something. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That best friends had weird moments sometimes — and maybe you’d laugh about it tomorrow over coffee.

But then you went to dinner.

Just a casual spot near the theater. Dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, exposed brick, candlelight on the tables. The kind of place where your friend group could cram into a long booth and pass menus around like nothing was vibrating under the surface.

Chan slid in next to you without a word.

You were hyper-aware of it. Of his shoulder against yours, the brush of his denim jacket sleeve. His thigh pressing against yours again like he needed it. Like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system earlier.

Your friend across the table said something — you didn’t catch it.

You laughed anyway. Too loud. Too bright.

Chan didn’t say much at first. He drank his beer, leaned in for the occasional snarky comment in your ear, but you could feel it — the way his hand stayed in his lap, twitching sometimes like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

And then.

You reached for a napkin. Your legs shifted. And his hand landed on your knee.

Accidentally — at first.

At least, you thought it was accidental. But he didn’t move it.

You froze.

Looked down.

He was staring straight ahead, nodding at something one of your friends was saying — like nothing was happening.

Like his fingers weren’t slowly brushing the bare skin just above your knee, under the hem of your denim skirt.

You inhaled sharply.

He heard it. You knew he did, because his fingers paused, then curled just a little.

Your stomach dropped.

You flicked your eyes sideways at him.

Chan was still looking at the others. Still pretending. But his hand was now fully on your thigh — warm, heavy, steady — and slowly sliding higher.

Your breath caught.

He was doing it on purpose. And you… You weren’t stopping him.

He leaned in then, head tilted toward yours like he was about to whisper another joke — but his voice was low this time. Quiet enough that only you could hear it over the ambient music and clinking glasses.

“You’re not moving,” he murmured. “You’re letting me do this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“You’re the one touching me,” you shot back, voice tight.

His thumb brushed higher.

Your skin tingled.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible now. “And you’re letting me.”

Your legs shifted under the table, parting just a little — not on purpose, not really — but it didn’t matter. Because his fingers slipped right into that space. Hot and deliberate.

You felt the pad of his middle finger slide up the inside of your thigh.

Slow and Dangerous.

And you snapped your knees together instinctively — not in rejection, but because it was too much.

He stopped. Froze.

You looked at him but he was already looking at you. Eyes blown wide, jaw tight. Like he wasn’t sure who he was right now. Neither were you.

Your voice came out a whisper. “Chan…”

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he said.

Silence stretched between you.

The others were still talking. Laughing. Existing in some parallel universe where you weren’t seconds from being fingered under a dinner table.

But you weren’t in that universe.

You were here. You were wet.

And Chan’s fingers were moving again.

You should have told him to stop.

There were too many people. Too many eyes. Your friends were right there — sharing food, sipping drinks, cracking jokes across the table like this was just another Thursday night.

And under the table? Chan’s hand was under your skirt.

Fully.

You didn’t know how it had happened so quickly — or maybe you did. Maybe it was always going to happen, after what the movie did to the both of you. After the way your thighs touched and neither of you pulled back.

But this? This was insane.

His fingertips brushed the edge of your underwear, and you inhaled sharply — too sharply — so you faked a cough and reached for your water.

Chan’s body shifted subtly beside you. You felt his breath near your ear as he leaned in to pretend he was saying something casual.

“Still not stopping me,” he murmured.

You clenched your thighs again, but this time it was too late. His fingers had already slipped past the edge of your panties.

Your hips twitched. And his knuckles pressed against your core.

You were soaked.

Like your body had been waiting for this since the cinema. Like it had been aching for him in the most humiliating, undeniable way.

Chan froze.

And then — low enough that no one else could possibly hear — he let out the smallest, most desperate sound.

“Fuck…”

You looked at him, panicked — your voice a whisper. “Chan, we’re in public.”

“I know,” he breathed, barely glancing at you. His hand didn’t move. “Tell me to stop and i will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And that was all he needed. His middle finger slipped inside you in one slow, hot push.

Your thighs tensed. Your mouth fell open.

You grabbed your drink like it was the only thing tethering you to reality — fingers white-knuckling the glass as you tried to keep your face normal, blank, anything but wrecked.

Above the table, someone asked you a question. Something about dessert. A menu. It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear it.

Because Chan curled his finger inside you.

Your hand shot to your lap, gripping your thigh to keep yourself from squirming. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anyone. You just nodded blindly and mumbled something noncommittal, hoping it passed.

Chan didn’t let up.

His finger moved in and out slowly, and your entire body flushed with heat. He had the audacity to smirk — just the tiniest bit — eyes still fixed on his drink like he wasn’t currently fingering his best friend under the table while people laughed and talked around them.

“This is so fucking wrong,” you hissed under your breath.

“I know,” he said. Another finger joined the first. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

You tried to breathe through your nose. Stay quiet. Act normal. But every subtle movement of his hand made your legs twitch, your core clench, your heartbeat crash against your ribs.

You glanced at him again.

He looked flushed now too. Like he was seconds from losing his mind, but still holding it together because it was you. Because this wasn’t just lust, it was something older, deeper — something that had been crawling under both your skins for months.

“Chan,” you whispered, like a warning.

“Say the word,” he said, voice tight. “Say stop. I will. But you don’t want me to.”

And you hated how right he was. Because instead of pulling away, you shifted forward an inch — just enough that his fingers sank deeper inside you.

Chan sucked in a breath. And you both went still.

A sharp laugh cracked from across the table, drawing attention — and you had to force a smile, nod along, pretend you weren’t sitting there with your best friend’s fingers knuckle-deep inside your body, massaging a spot that made your eyes blur.

Your thighs trembled and Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispered. “Right here, aren’t you?”

You shuddered. Your breath hitched.

And he smiled — not cocky, not cruel. Just in awe. Like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked with your cheeks flushed and your teeth digging into your lip to keep a moan from slipping out.

You felt your orgasm build — fast, frantic, terrifying.

You grabbed his wrist under the table.

He stilled instantly. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

And that was it.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm nudging your clit just enough to send you over the edge in a quiet, trembling crash of heat and pleasure. You came with your teeth pressed into your fist, staring hard at a candle on the table like it could anchor you, keep you grounded while your body shattered in silence.

And when it was over, you sat back—Breathless. Shaking.

His fingers slipped out of you slowly, carefully — like he respected what he’d just done to you, even if it made no sense at all.

Your eyes met his and the panic set in.

What the fuck are we doing?

But you were still wet. Still aching.

And you knew — without a doubt — you weren’t done.

You bolted from the table the second your legs worked again.

Something about needing the bathroom. A brush of your hand on your friend’s shoulder as you excused yourself, voice a little too high-pitched, smile a little too tight.

You didn’t look at Chan.

Couldn’t.

Your body was still pulsing from what he’d just done to you — in public, surrounded by friends, like it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his fingers into his best friend and make her come in silence while everyone else debated dessert.

Your heart thundered.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

The bathroom door swung open and you staggered inside, gripping the sink, trying to catch your breath. Your panties were still wet, your thighs sticky, your reflection in the mirror pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed and wrecked.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.

And then the door opened behind you. Your stomach dropped.

“Chan, don’t—”

But it was too late.

He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and turned to face you — eyes dark, breathing shallow, like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“I had to,” he said. “I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”

You backed up a step. “We’re in the bathroom.”

“No one saw me come in.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” His voice cracked on the edge of something— desperation, maybe. “Because I just made you cum under the fucking table and you didn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t!” you hissed, voice sharp and low.

He flinched. Just slightly.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

“It was too much,” you added. “You— that— fuck, Chan.”

He moved toward you. Slow. Careful. But you didn’t step back.

“You liked it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You liked it,” he repeated. “Your body loved it. You soaked through my fingers.”

Your lips parted.

He stopped right in front of you now, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up.

“You didn’t even know you were grinding against my hand until I curled my fingers and you almost choked on your drink.”

“Chan—”

“You’re still wet, aren’t you?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Still aching.”

You stared at him. And you didn’t deny it. A beat of silence passed.

Then: “I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

His hand rose — not to touch you, but to rest against the wall behind your head. Caging you in. Close enough that his breath hit your lips.

“I do,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in just a little more. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked in that theater. The way you breathed. The way your thighs trembled.”

You swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re my best friend.”

“Then stop,” you said. It sounded like a challenge.

He looked at you.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

Your silence was answer enough.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Hungry. Like every second you’d known each other had been leading here, and he was done pretending. His hands gripped your waist, and before you could catch your breath, he had you backed against the stall door, mouth trailing fire down your neck.

“I need to taste you properly,” he whispered against your throat. “But I can’t wait.”

You whimpered as his hands slid under your skirt again, rougher this time — no hesitation. He shoved your panties down with practiced fingers, lifted your leg over his waist and slide two fingers back inside you like they belonged there.

You moaned — couldn’t help it.

His free hand clamped over your mouth immediately.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll get us caught.”

His eyes burned into yours — wild, wrecked, possessive.

And he fucked you with his fingers like he meant it. Like he needed to make you feel it. Wrist twisting just right, fingers rubbing the spot that made your eyes roll back, and all you could do was cling to his shoulders and take it.

You came harder this time.

Biting into his palm. Hips jerking against his hand.

And even after your legs gave out and your body sagged against the door, he didn’t pull away. He held you there. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing you in.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head, eyes still glazed. “Me neither.”

—

Neither of you said anything on the way back.

You walked side by side, hands in your pockets, your face still flushed from the bathroom, heart still pounding in your throat.

The streets were quieter now, warm with the scent of summer and distant traffic, and the occasional brush of Chan’s arm sent shivers crawling down your spine.

You couldn’t look at him.

Because if you did…

You might ask for something neither of you could ever come back from.

Your thighs still ached. Your underwear still clung damp to your skin. And between your legs — Jesus. It was like your body had been switched on and couldn’t shut off.

You were still feeling his fingers inside you.

And he kept glancing sideways. Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t know how.

You finally reached his building. The stoop was dim and familiar — how many nights had you sat there together, late-night snacks and dumb conversations and sleepy yawns on each other’s shoulders? You could still see the ghost of those moments hovering in the air, but they were dissolving fast.

Chan turned to you at the door.

Hands in his pockets.

Voice rough.

“Do you wanna—” He swallowed. “Come in?”

Your heart stuttered.

You should’ve said no.

But instead you nodded.

His apartment smelled like his cologne and roses.

You stood in the middle of his living room, heart hammering. Your skin felt too tight, your legs still shaky. And Chan — god, Chan — locked the door behind you, then leaned back against it like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Until he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And you felt your breath catch.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. Your thighs, your mouth, the way you looked at me when I touched you. I’ve never seen anything that turned me on more in my life.”

Your throat went dry.

He pushed off the door and stepped closer.

“I want to fuck you so bad I’m shaking.”

Your lips parted.

“Chan—”

“I want to pin you down,” he continued, voice wrecked. “I want to have your wrists in one hand, your neck in the other, and just ruin you.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

He reached for you then — slow, giving you time to pull away — but you didn’t.

He brushed your hair back. Tilted your chin up.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said. “How many nights I’ve had to jerk off in silence after hugging you goodbye.”

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I think about you when I fuck my fist. I imagine you beneath me, half-undressed, legs open, begging.”

You gasped — one hand flying to cover your mouth.

But he wasn’t done.

“I want to pin you to the bed,” he whispered. “Hold you down while you squirm. Make you cry my name while I fuck you like you owe me something.”

Your legs buckled.

He caught you instantly.

“You like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, stunned.

“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done.”

He backed you toward the bedroom, eyes locked to yours.

“And after that?” he said. “I’m gonna cum all over you. Your stomach. Your face. Wherever I want.”

You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you in your clothes, with your skirt bunched around your waist and your panties pushed aside, because I can’t wait to take them off.”

He licked his lips.

“And you’re gonna take it, baby girl.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Breathless. Speechless.

So fucking turned on.

And then, softly you said:

“Show me.”

—

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And it was like your body knew.

Your heart was a live wire. Your breath shallow. You took two slow steps into Chan’s room — familiar walls, familiar scent — but it didn’t feel like home tonight.

It felt like danger. It felt like him.

Chan followed behind, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch until you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned around to face him.

He looked wrecked already — hair tousled, chest heaving, hands flexing open and shut at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you and ruin you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and reached for the hem of your skirt.

He caught your wrists before you could tug it up.

“Let me,” he said.

And that voice — god, that voice — low and dark and possessive, made your knees tremble.

He walked toward you, slow like a wolf circling prey. You expected him to strip you, to yank your clothes off with that filthy desperation he’d whispered about.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

Soft, at first and then not.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs with practiced heat. And when he pulled your skirt up — when he saw your ruined panties again — he let out a sound so deep it rattled in your chest.

“Still wet for me,” he said.

You couldn’t speak.

“You came twice and you’re still soaked.”

He dipped his head — not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to your throat. You tilted your head back with a gasp as he sucked at your pulse, teeth grazing, mouth open and hot.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” he growled. “Skirt up. Panties in the way. Legs spread for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Chan—”

“Shh.”

He kissed your inner thigh, lips dragging dangerously close to your center, but not touching. Not yet.

“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” he said against your skin. “How many nights I imagined tasting you.”

And then his fingers hooked your underwear and tore them down.

You gasped.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and blown.

And then — finally — his mouth closed over your core.

Your knees buckled.

You moaned his name, loud and desperate, and he growled into you, arms locking around your thighs as he dragged you closer. His tongue was everywhere — licking, curling, sucking your clit in a rhythm that was absolutely obscene.

You lost time.

Lost sense.

You gripped his hair and ground against his face, your body taking what it needed because he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let you breathe, and when his fingers slipped inside you, you came so hard your vision blacked out for a second.

“Fuck— fuck—” you sobbed, hips jerking.

He rode it out. Held you through it. Slowed down only when you begged him to.

And then he stood.

Still fully clothed.

Hard as a rock behind his jeans.

You couldn’t think. Could barely stand.

“Take it off,” you breathed, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

But he was already on it — pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, eyes locked to yours.

And fuck.

He was beautiful. He had always been.

His body was all sharp muscle and light skin and hunger, abs flexing as he worked his jeans open, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when he stepped out of them — hard, flushed, huge — you choked on your own gasp.

He grinned.

“Scared?”

You shook your head.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You moaned.

He pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

Then shoved you onto it.

Climbed on top of you, hands bracketing your head, knees parting your thighs.

“Hands up,” he said.

You obeyed instantly, arms stretched above you on the pillow.

He leaned down, kissed your lips like they were sacred.

“Keep them there.”

You nodded.

He lined himself up — and hovered for just a second.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

And he thrust in.

Hard.

You arched up with a cry, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. He groaned above you, head falling to your shoulder, arms shaking with restraint.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathed.

He gave you a moment.

And then he started to move.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, and your gasps turned to cries, your hands fisting the sheets as he pounded into you like a mad man. Like he needed it. His fingers tangled with yours above your head, pinning you in place as his hips slammed into you again and again and again—

“Fuck—! Chan—”

“You’re mine,” he growled. “You’re so fucking mine.”

Your fourth orgasm tore through you like fire, and Chan groaned when he felt you clench around him, hips stuttering as he chased his own end.

And when he pulled out last-second and came all over your stomach, hot and messy and shaking, you felt like your soul had left your body.

You both collapsed.

Silence.

Only breath and heat and the soft whisper of, “Holy shit.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He looked at you. And he smiled.

—

It was the sun that woke you.

Bright and slow, bleeding through the gap in the curtains and painting gold across the bed. You stirred, eyes still closed, your body humming with a dull ache — sore thighs, tender hips, a deep throb between your legs that made your breath catch.

And then you felt it.

Warm skin at your back.

A chest rising and falling slowly behind you.

An arm, heavy and wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed possessively just under your ribs. His scent still clung to your skin — sweat and something darker, heady, him.

And that’s when the memories crashed in.

The bathroom.

The restaurant.

The bed.

The way he’d pinned your hands above your head and fucked you like he meant to wreck you.

Your cheeks burned instantly, eyes flying open.

Holy shit.

You slept with your best friend.

You slept with Chan.

And not just slept. You let him possess you— He had you on his face. His fingers, his mouth, his everything, and then he’d whispered things that should’ve made you run for the door but instead made you soaked.

You swallowed thickly.

And then the arm around your waist pulled you closer.

You yelped.

Chan groaned softly behind you, voice gravelled from sleep.

“Mm… what time is it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say.

He blinked his eyes open, peeking over your shoulder. “You okay?”

You turned to face him — slowly, hesitantly.

He looked wrecked. Hair a mess, voice hoarse, lips kiss-bruised and sleep-swollen.

Your stomach flipped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Sore.”

He grinned — and you hated that your thighs clenched at the sight of it.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

“Chan—”

He slid his hand down to your hip, voice low.

“Because I can fix it.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

He quirked a brow. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still the same girl you— you—”

“Fucked six ways from Sunday?” he offered, smug.

Your face burned.

But then he leaned in, nuzzled his nose against yours.

And whispered: “You’re not.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He shook his head.

“You’re completely mine now remember?”

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain melted.

“Chan…”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Last night… that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t just me losing my mind. That was me finally doing what I’ve wanted for months.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“I thought this would ruin everything,” you whispered.

He tilted his head.

“And now?”

You took a breath.

And admitted it: “I don’t want to stop.”

He grinned. “I never was gonna let you.”

He pulled you into him, kissed you — slow, lazy, warm — and you melted right into his arms.

The morning didn’t feel awkward.

It didn’t feel scary.

It felt like the beginning of something new.

And then—

“I meant what I said last night, by the way,” Chan murmured against your mouth.

You blinked. “What part?”

“The part where I pin you down and fuck you like you stole from me.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You already did—”

“And the part where I cum all over your face.”

“CHRISTOPHER—”

“Just letting you know what’s on the schedule.”

You slapped his chest, flustered beyond belief.

He just laughed.

And kissed you again.

“Cum on my face, huh?”

Your voice came out soft. Dangerous.

Chan blinked. His grin froze on his lips. “…Uh-oh.”

You rolled onto him. Just like that. Bare skin on bare skin, straddling his hips while he stared up at you with those huge, still-sleepy eyes.

But sleep was over.

You rutted your hips once, slowly, deliberately—feeling the way his cock stirred between your thighs—and he made a sound.

“Y’know,” you said, sweet and sharp, “you’re not the only one with fantasies.”

His hands gripped your hips instantly. “Oh?”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You’re not the only one who thinks about pinning someone down.”

He hissed.

“And I know you like control, but imagine this—” you rolled your hips again, voice turning breathy, “—imagine me riding you so hard you beg me to let you cum.”

He groaned.

“Imagine I keep going… and don’t let you. Just to see how long you last.”

“Fuck—”

“And I’ve thought about your mouth too. Not just eating me out—though, Christ—” you shuddered, “—I still don’t think i can walk right, thanks for that—”

He smirked proudly.

“But I’ve thought about your whimpers too. What you sound like when I suck you so slow you start losing your mind.”

You kissed down his chest, dragging your nails across his abs, feeling him tense and twitch beneath you.

“I wanna leave marks,” you whispered. “Wanna make you look wrecked for me.”

Chan was flushed now. Practically trembling under you.

“Baby girl,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled.

And slid down between his legs.

“I haven’t even started.”

He wasn’t ready, but you took your time.

You teased him with your mouth first — slow licks up his shaft, tongue circling the tip, only enough suction to drive him insane. You had your hands braced on his thighs, nails biting into skin just enough to own him.

“Jesus—” he gasped, head thrown back. “You’re—fuck, that’s good—”

You moaned around him and watched his hips twitch up, his hand flying to your hair like instinct, fingers tightening in warning.

“Babe— I swear—if you keep going like this, I’m gonna—”

You pulled off right before he came.

And smirked.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” he asked, breathless.

“Damn right we are,” you said, climbing back on top of him. “I’m getting mine now.”

You lined him up, braced yourself—

And sank down in one slow, maddening slide.

Chan’s eyes rolled back.

You didn’t even move for a full ten seconds. Just sat there, gripping his chest, clenching around him until he was panting.

And then you rode him. Like a woman possessed.

You weren’t slow. You were relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies together, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as you bounced with wild, desperate rhythm.

“Fuck—fuck— you’re insane,” he groaned.

“Say you love it,” you panted.

“I fucking love it—!”

You leaned down and bit his shoulder.

And that was it.

He flipped you over without warning, slammed back into you hard enough to rattle the headboard, and locked your wrists above your head like he had something to prove.

You moaned his name so loud it echoed.

He looked down at you — hair in his eyes, lips parted, body dripping sweat — and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk.”

“Try me.”

So he did.

You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he made you scream. The sun climbed higher outside and you never even noticed.

He had you on your back.

Then on your stomach.

Then on your side with one leg thrown over his hips while he pounded into you, growling your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when you came again — thighs shaking, back arched, eyes fluttering — he pulled out and came all over your chest, jaw tight and groaning like it destroyed him.

You lay there for a second.

“Holy… fuck,” you breathed.

Chan flopped beside you.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Then:

“…I want pancakes,” you whispered.

Chan turned his head, eyes still blown wide. “How the fuck are you thinking about pancakes right now?”

You smiled lazily.

“I burn calories fast.”

He groaned into the pillow.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled onto your side and kissed his cheek.

“But what a way to go.”

—

You were wearing nothing but Chan’s shirt and a pair of socks.

And it was doing things to him.

He stood at the stove, shirtless, trying to focus on flipping pancakes while you leaned over the counter, hair messy, skin glowing, humming some made-up song about how much you deserved “carbs and cuddles after all that cardio.”

“You’re just using me for my protein,” he muttered, hiding a grin.

You stretched dramatically, popping a strawberry into your mouth. “Technically, you used me for your protein.”

Chan nearly burned the pancake.

You laughed when he choked on air, stepping over to whack his back. “Careful, old man. I still need you alive for round– wait, how many rounds now?”

He turned his head, gave you a look that could scorch.

“Keep talking like that and we’re not making it to breakfast.”

You kissed his shoulder. “Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

He flipped the last pancake with a little more urgency.

A few minutes later, the two of you were at his mini kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, your plate stacked high like a kid at a sleepover.

“You know,” you said through a mouthful of syrupy goodness, “this is dangerously close to looking like a real relationship.”

Chan froze.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You paused.

Fork halfway to your mouth.

“…No.”

He watched you carefully. “Because I was kinda hoping it was.”

You squinted. “Hoping it was bad?”

“No—” he laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I mean—I was hoping it was a relationship. Or that it could be.”

Your heart thudded.

Hard.

“Chan…”

He looked nervous for the first time since he’d had you straddling him in bed the night before.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he said. “Not to pretending. Not to brushing this off. That’s not what last night was for me.”

You set your fork down gently.

“It wasn’t for me either.”

The tension cracked open—just a little—and he reached across the table, linking your fingers together.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I think I have too.”

“And I know we were reckless and a little feral and probably woke my neighbors up—”

“They applauded, Chan.”

He laughed.

You smiled.

But then—his eyes softened.

And his voice turned sincere. “Can I take you out?”

Your brows lifted. “You always do”

He smirked. “Like, properly. Date you. Buy you dinner. Try to behave myself.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, pretending to think. “And if you fail miserably?”

“Then I’ll behave badly… respectfully.”

You grinned.

“Okay,” you said. “I’m in.”

He looked so genuinely happy you felt it in your bones.

You finished breakfast in a daze of syrup and laughter, tangled limbs and coffee stolen from each other’s mugs. And when he pulled you back onto the couch, wrapped around you like he couldn’t get close enough, you let him.

Because somehow, this—this—felt more dangerous than anything that happened last night.

Not because it was wild. But because it was real.

And you both knew? You were in trouble.

The best kind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: GUYS!!! WE HIT 1K FOLLOWERS!!!! 🤩 wowwwww, thank you so much for always reading and indulging my delulu 😭❤️ i love you guyssssss! I think i will be doing a new series since Angry Boys did well, but ill make a poll to know what direction to go next and until then, please leave nice comments, likes and a reblog if you enjoyed this!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000

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aphodeity7 · 18 days ago

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I would like to mention as a scene of discussion the time when Koro-sensei brought Karma and Nagisa to the new movie release in Hawaii (from Japan, so a direct, over-ocean flight there and back). And how Karma, midair, said something like, “but what if we tried to stab you on the way back?”

That scenario reminds me of a tumblr fable in which a scorpion goes to the river and tries to cross. There are multiple variations, but usually a toad swims over and offers the scorpion a ride across the river. Often times the scorpion climbs onto the toad’s back, and they set off. Partway through, the waves are too tough for the frog to swim smoothly and it becomes difficult for the scorpion to stay afloat. So the scorpion stings the toad out of fear of being drowned by the frog. Then they both drown. Below the cut, I will describe how these two scenarios make sense of each other to me. Spoiler warnings for the entire series of Ass Class (because I just finished the anime and cried about it).

Keep reading

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aphodeity7 · 18 days ago

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if you take out all the murder, the ending of assassination classroom is reflected in any student-teacher bond. no matter how close they become, there is always a ticking clock on the relationship. you only get one year with that teacher, with that class. the end of the year may as well be the end of the world. everything the students learn brings them closer to the point when they can leave the teacher behind. after graduation, the students will move on to their futures, armed with all the knowledge they've gained, but the teacher can't come with them.

there's a reason every episode's title has the word "time" in it. because the whole show is about the time class e gets to spend together, and the titles are a constant reminder that that time is limited.

the assassination of koro-sensei is class e's graduation. from that moment forward, the teacher, the class, and middle school itself, are no longer a part of their lives. it would seem the message is that nothing lasts forever. the sakura blossoms always fall, children always grow up, and the fun times always end.

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aphodeity7 · 19 days ago

Text

Vocal Training

Sunbae! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut 18+, corruption kink, studio sex, desperate begging, sunbae!Chan, subtextual innocence, loss of control, secret relationship, possessive Chan, aftercare, dirty talk, voice kink, praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation, begging kink, recording booth sex, Chan’s studio

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: You were supposed to just get some help with your vocals. That was it. Nothing more. Chan offered to coach you, one-on-one, in the safety of his studio—and you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. He was older. Wiser. Always calm and steady in a way you’d never learned to be. You didn’t expect the compliments, the touches, the subtle tests to see how far you’d let him go. And you definitely didn’t expect the day he finally broke you open in the booth, kissed you like you belonged to him, and made you beg to be ruined.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

A/N: This was requested by @rosequartsz, Enjoy 😉 Happy Birthday!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The first time you sat on his lap, it wasn’t on purpose.

There were only two chairs in the studio that night—one behind the desk, the other pushed into a corner and buried under a pile of hoodies, empty plastic bottles, and an old guitar strap. Chan had offered you the good one, naturally, but you’d been too focused on the demo he was pulling up, the way he always hummed along even when he wasn’t trying. You leaned closer to watch his screen, one knee on the armrest, and somehow—without thinking—you just… perched.

Right there.

Right on his thigh.

He froze beneath you. Only for a second. Just long enough to make you glance down in confusion, your wide eyes meeting his.

“Oh—sorry,” you started to move, but his hand landed on your waist like it belonged there. Firm. Warm.

“It’s fine,” he said. Quiet. Almost strained.

You were too innocent to read the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Too sweet to notice the way his fingers tightened, just slightly, before he released you. You thought it was nothing—just Chan being polite. Chan being dependable. He always was.

You stayed on his lap the whole session.

—

After that, things didn’t change immediately. He still treated you like a kid. Still smiled at you like you were too soft to touch, too pure for his world of brutal hours and burn-out. You were only Jeongin’s age, barely debuted, and always apologizing for your mistakes. It was cute. Almost too cute.

But you kept coming back.

You’d text him after practice with breathless, excited questions about vocal warmups. You’d sit beside him in the cafeteria, wearing those ridiculous oversized sweaters with sleeves that swallowed your hands. You called him “Channie” like it meant something holy.

And maybe it did. Maybe that’s why it drove him fucking insane.

You didn’t notice the shift at first. You were still babbling about key changes and melody lines when he started watching your lips more than your form. Still curling up beside him on the couch when his fingers began curling into fists to keep from touching you. You didn’t see how his jaw flexed when your skirt rose mid-thigh. You didn’t hear the way his breathing changed every time you asked him to “show you how it’s done.”

And you definitely didn’t know what you were doing the night you asked him this:

“Oppa, can I ask you something kinda weird?”

He looked up from his laptop. You were in the corner of the room again, legs tucked under you, wearing a tank top and shorts you definitely didn’t own last month. His gaze dropped before he could stop it. He didn’t answer right away.

“…Go ahead,” he said.

You twirled a pencil between your fingers. Bit your bottom lip. God.

“How do you, like…” You laughed, nervous and sweet. “How do you seduce someone?”

Silence.

The kind that made the air in the room feel thicker. Heavy.

You didn’t know it, but something in him broke the moment you said it.

He closed his laptop slowly, carefully. The hum of the monitors was suddenly loud in the quiet.

“You’re joking,” he said flatly.

You giggled. “Kind of?”

But your eyes were curious. Your lips glossy from that stupid cherry balm. Your knees bare and bent toward him like you didn’t even realize what position you’d put yourself in.

“Why are you asking me that?” he asked, voice lower now. Controlled.

You shrugged. “You just… seem like you’d know.”

There it was again—that innocence, all tangled up with something so casually dangerous.

And you had no idea.

You didn’t know why you asked him that.

The words had just come out—half a joke, half something else. Something sticky and curious and reckless. You hadn’t expected him to react the way he did.

Chan stared at you for a second too long. Not in the way people did when they were thinking. Not even in the way he looked at the screen when he was editing vocals—focused and zoned out and kind of tired. No. This stare was heavy. Charged. Like he was seeing something he shouldn’t.

Like he was trying to decide what to do with it.

He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“You shouldn’t ask questions like that,” he said, almost under his breath.

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure why.

You tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I’m just curious.”

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not the person you should be asking.”

“Why not?” You tilted your head. You knew you were pushing. Maybe that was the point. Maybe you wanted to know how far you could go. “You’ve probably had, like, tons of experience, right?”

His eyes closed for a moment. Just a blink, but slower. Like he was exhausted all of a sudden.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You shifted where you sat on the little couch, trying to lighten the mood. “So that’s a yes?”

Chan exhaled—sharp and short, more of a sound than a breath. Then he stood up.

For a second, you thought he was going to leave. That you’d actually annoyed him. But instead, he crossed the room and stopped right in front of you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted down.

“You think seducing someone is a game?”

The words came out so quiet. So smooth. It made your skin tingle.

You blinked up at him. “N-No?”

“You think it’s just… lip gloss and eye contact and giggling like that?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped. Realized you were giggling. Shit.

Chan’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smirk. Or a growl. You couldn’t tell.

He crouched down, suddenly eye-level, forearms resting on his knees. He looked at you like he was studying something—like he was figuring out whether you were real or some kind of trick.

“You want to learn how to seduce someone?” he asked, lower now. Softer.

You nodded. Barely.

He leaned in a little more. You could feel the heat of him, smell that clean, rosy scent he always carried—like skin and sweat and cologne that cost more than your rent.

“Then here’s your first lesson,” he murmured. “You don’t go asking men like me to teach you.”

You swallowed. Your throat felt dry.

“Why not?”

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips. Then your knees.

Then back up.

“Because,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’d stop teaching real fast.”

You stared at him. Words failed you.

He rose to his full height and stepped back, rubbing a hand over his neck like he was trying to shake something off.

“I’m gonna get some water,” he said, almost too casually. “You should go home soon. It’s getting late.”

And just like that, the moment cracked.

But it didn’t vanish.

It lingered—thick in the air, hot in your chest, humming between your thighs.

You watched the studio door close behind him. Your heart was pounding. Your hands trembled as you picked up your phone, pretending to scroll.

You weren’t sure what had just happened.

But you wanted to do it again.

—-

Chan didn’t text you for three days.

Which wouldn’t normally mean anything—he was always busy, running on fumes and three hours of sleep—but this time it felt different. You’d grown used to the casual replies, the quick “want to practice tonight?” or “you eating?” texts that came with no warning but always made you feel strangely warm.

Now, nothing.

No emoji-laced messages. No late-night memes. Not even a reaction to the video you posted of your new vocal practice.

It bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

When you finally saw him at the company building, he looked—fine. Tired, maybe. Sweaty from practice. But when you waved, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey, you.” He said it softly, but his eyes flicked behind you—checking if anyone else was around.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked.

His brows drew together. “No. Why would I be mad?”

You fidgeted with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “You’ve been kind of… distant.”

Chan sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not you. I just… think we should cool it with the late-night practices for a bit.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh.”

“Not forever,” he added quickly, voice a little too gentle. “You’ve been doing great. You’re killing it. I just think you don’t need me hovering all the time anymore.”

You stared at him. That wasn’t what this was about, and you both knew it.

“Is this about what I said?” you asked, a little quieter.

He didn’t answer.

You took a breath. “Because I was kidding, Channie. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

His jaw tensed at that.

“You didn’t make anything weird,” he said. “I did.”

That stung.

He noticed.

“I just think it’s better if we keep some distance. You’re… pure. You’re new to all this. And I don’t want to mess that up for you.”

You didn’t know what to say. There was something in his voice—something tight and controlled, like he was clenching a muscle too hard.

He smiled again. Gentle. Fake.

“I’ll still help with your vocals. Just… not at night, okay?”

You nodded, but your chest felt cold.

And your curiosity?

Burned hotter than ever.

—

It took another week before you went back to the studio.

You told yourself it was innocent. You just wanted his input on your new harmony lines. It wasn’t about that moment. It wasn’t about the way he looked at you, or how your skin still tingled when you remembered the sound of his voice dropping low beside your ear.

You knocked on the studio door anyway, heart racing.

He was sitting at the desk, hoodie loose around his shoulders, hair pushed back with a headband. When he looked up and saw you, something flickered across his face.

You couldn’t tell if it was dread or desire.

“I thought we agreed—”

“I brought coffee,” you cut in quickly, holding up the bag with a small smile. “And I need your help.”

He stared at you for a second. Then sighed.

“Come in.”

You set the drinks down beside him and slid into the chair, pretending not to notice the way his hand twitched when your knees brushed. You opened your notebook, flipping through pages.

“I wrote a new verse,” you said. “I think it could use some warmth. Like that thing you always say about emotional resonance?”

He nodded slowly. Said nothing.

You pressed play on your recording, humming along softly with the playback. He listened in silence.

When it ended, you looked at him.

“Well?”

His eyes were already on you.

“You’re improving.”

“Only improving?”

He hesitated. “You sound… honest. A little more raw. Like you felt it.”

You bit your lip—just enough to get his attention. “Maybe I was thinking about you.”

You meant it as a joke. Almost.

He didn’t take it that way.

“Don’t.”

The word hit the air hard and fast. You blinked.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

The room went quiet. Your pulse jumped.

“I’m not,” you said—too soft, too fast.

Chan stood up suddenly, pushing back from the desk. He walked to the corner of the studio, then stopped with his back to you.

“You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “You think you’re playing a game. You think it’s harmless.”

You stood, too. “What if I do understand?”

He turned slowly. His eyes met yours—and they weren’t soft anymore.

“Then you should leave.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward instead.

“Channie,” you whispered. “What would happen if I didn’t?”

His hands clenched at his sides. His throat bobbed.

Then, finally, voice low and dangerous, he answered:

“Then I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

You didn’t flinch when he said it.

You didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t break the eye contact, even when the air between you got heavy with something thicker than silence.

So when Chan stepped toward you—slow, measured, eyes locked to yours—you didn’t move. Not even when the space between you vanished.

He was so close now you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. The outline of every thought he wasn’t saying etched across his face.

You’d never seen him like this. Not guarded. Not careful.

Just… watching.

He reached out—slowly—and his fingers grazed your cheek. Not a full touch. Just enough to test.

You exhaled—too sharp.

“You want to play grown-up, huh?” he murmured, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Want to act like you know what you’re doing?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Let’s see, then.”

He stepped around you. Close enough that his chest brushed your back as he circled behind you. His voice was still low, soft enough that it felt like it sank straight into your skin.

“If you really understood what you were asking for,” he said, “you’d be nervous right now.”

“I am nervous,” you whispered.

“Not nervous enough.”

His fingers slid down your arms—not quite holding you, just ghosting. Just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’ve got no idea what it means to really seduce someone. You think it’s about looking pretty and biting your lip.” He leaned in, his breath warm on your neck. “But it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch, thick and pulsing.

“You wanna know what seduction is?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“Then let me show you something.”

He moved in front of you again—close enough that you could smell the coffee on his breath and the heat radiating off his body. His eyes searched yours for a long moment.

Then he reached for your hand.

Gently. Carefully. Like you might pull away.

You didn’t.

He brought it up—slowly—and pressed it against his chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin burned through the fabric of his hoodie.

“You feel that?” he said. “That’s what you’re doing to me without even trying.”

You swallowed, lips parting.

His hand stayed over yours, holding it in place. “Now imagine what would happen if I stopped trying, too.”

Your pulse jumped.

“I’m giving you one chance,” he said. “Tell me to stop. Say it, and we go back to normal. You walk out that door, and I forget this ever happened.”

He held your gaze.

“But if you don’t…”

You couldn’t breathe.

“If you don’t say it…” His voice dropped an octave. “Then I’m going to keep showing you. Until you’re not just pretending anymore.”

His hand on yours tightened just enough to ground you. Just enough to make you dizzy.

You didn’t say anything.

And you didn’t move.

The corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly.

“…That’s what I thought.”

His fingers slid from your hand to your wrist—holding you there like a question. Not forcing. Not demanding. Just… waiting.

Waiting to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t.

Chan’s thumb brushed against your inner wrist, dragging slowly across the pulse point.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

You were.

Not from fear. From anticipation.

He leaned in—closer than before—and tilted his head, speaking softly into your ear.

“I’m not going to forget this, you know.”

His voice. God, his voice. It wasn’t just deep—it was intimate. Thick. Low and smooth like it was meant to curl around your spine and melt into your skin.

“I don’t want you to,” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. You couldn’t read the expression in his eyes—like he was still deciding whether this was wrong or just dangerous.

Then he cupped your cheek—so gently—and ran his thumb along your bottom lip.

“Open.”

Your lips parted instinctively.

His thumb dragged down, slow and deliberate, wetting itself along the inside of your mouth before he pulled away. He watched you, eyes fixed on the way your lips stayed open just a beat too long.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re listening.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your whole body buzzed like it had been rewired.

He stepped in closer again, crowding you slightly, like he needed your attention narrowed down to only him.

“Lesson one,” he said, voice low. “Seduction isn’t about what you show. It’s about what you hold back.”

His fingers brushed down your arm again. Slower this time. His palm settled lightly on your waist—just warm contact, nothing filthy yet, and it still made your breath stutter.

“You don’t give it all away at once,” he continued, “You let them wonder. You make them want.”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip.

“And you never…” his fingers dipped just slightly lower, “…ever touch first unless you’re ready to be touched back.”

You froze.

But you didn’t pull away.

Chan’s gaze dragged down your face—lingering on your lips, your neck, the flushed skin rising above your shirt.

“Can I?” he asked.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

His hands found your thighs—warm, steady—and he tugged you gently toward the studio couch behind you until the backs of your knees hit the edge. You sat without thinking.

He stayed standing, eyes dragging over you like he was seeing you for the first time. Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees.

Knees.

Chan knelt in front of you.

His hands settled on your knees, thumbs stroking soft circles there. Not pushing them apart. Not yet. Just resting. Just waiting.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice almost too soft to hear. “Tell me.”

You hesitated—but not because you didn’t want it.

Because you’d never said anything like this out loud before.

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

Your face burned.

He leaned in again, whispering against the inside of your thigh. “Use your words.”

You swallowed hard. “Between my legs.”

His hands inched upward, fingertips skimming over your skin, dragging the hem of your shorts with them.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes. “Touch me between my legs, Channie.”

He hummed—a low, satisfied sound that made your core throb.

Then finally—finally—he pressed the heel of his palm right where you needed it.

You gasped. Your thighs twitched under his hands.

He looked up at you, eyes dark. “That’s the reaction I want. Not just pretty words. Not just teasing.”

He started rubbing slow circles, firm and steady, watching your every twitch and moan like he was studying you.

“Lesson two,” he said, voice thick now. “You learn more from pressure than from touch.”

Your breath hitched.

“Feel that?” His fingers pressed just a little harder. “That’s what it feels like when someone really wants you.”

You whimpered, unable to hide it.

“And I haven’t even taken your clothes off yet.”

Chan worked you open slowly—still on his knees, still fully clothed—like he had all the time in the world and wanted to feel every second of your unraveling.

His hand moved in firm, perfect circles, pressing between your legs over the thin fabric of your shorts. You were soaked already, thighs shaking, fingers digging into the edge of the couch.

“I haven’t even gotten under yet,” he murmured, eyes on your flushed face. “That alone making you this wet?”

You nodded helplessly.

He gave a dark chuckle—like he’d known, but needed to hear it.

Then he slid his fingers under the waistband, dipping past your panties.

The first proper touch was a shock—direct, confident, nothing shy about the way he parted you with two fingers and found your clit immediately. You gasped, body jerking, and he grinned against your thigh like he’d been waiting for that sound.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So warm.”

His fingers kept moving—teasing, exploring, pressing just right—and the tension built so fast it scared you.

“I—Chan—” you gasped. “Wait, I think I—”

“Let it happen.”

You shook your head, breath ragged. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

His eyes locked on yours, sharp with something wicked.

“You’ve never come before?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

His whole expression shifted—like something inside him snapped loose.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “No wonder you keep looking at me like that.”

His fingers changed pace—less teasing now, more deliberate. Faster. Filthier. You cried out, hand flying to his wrist, but he didn’t stop.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he ordered.

You tried. God, you tried.

Your legs trembled, muscles seizing, mouth falling open as everything in you tightened to a breaking point—and then—

You shattered.

Silently at first. Then with a choked moan as your first real orgasm hit you like a fucking freight train. It was overwhelming. Too much.

Chan didn’t stop right away. He slowed down, coaxing you through it with soft circles, his free hand bracing your thigh to hold you open while you writhed under his touch.

When you finally slumped forward, trembling and breathless, he kissed the inside of your knee.

You were still dazed when he stood, wiping his fingers with a tissue before reaching down and hooking both hands under your thighs.

“Wait—what—?”

“I’m not done,” he said, lifting you clean off the couch.

He lifted you so easily it felt unreal—like your body didn’t weigh anything in his arms. Your breath caught as he crossed the room with you, eyes dark, mouth set in something determined and dangerous.

The door to the recording booth clicked open. He carried you in and kicked it closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Then he turned, leaned you against the padded wall, and just… looked at you.

You were still shaking.

From the orgasm he’d pulled out of you minutes ago. From the way his hands never stopped roaming. From the look in his eyes now, like he wasn’t sure whether to worship you or break you.

“Do you have any idea how sweet you feel?” he asked, voice rough, lips brushing your ear.

You swallowed hard. “Chan…”

He pulled back to look at you, and the heat in his gaze made your knees weak.

“I’m trying to be patient,” he said. “But watching you fall apart like that…”

He dipped his head to your neck. Kissed it. Bit it, just enough to sting.

“I want to hear you beg for it.”

You blinked up at him—flushed, dazed, aching.

“I—” You bit your lip. “I want you…”

He tilted his head. “Want me how?”

Your face burned.

“I want you to—” You hesitated, thighs pressing together. “To fuck me.”

His mouth twitched into a dark smile. “Say please?”

You flushed deeper. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please, Channie,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please fuck me. I want you inside me. I want to feel it. I want to feel you.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, and you felt the shift in him—like the last thread of restraint had finally snapped.

“Good girl.”

He set you down only to spin you around, pressing you face-first against the booth wall. You gasped at the cold surface, hands bracing yourself as he yanked your shorts and panties down your thighs in one smooth motion.

Then he dropped to his knees behind you.

You felt his breath first. Hot against your bare, soaked heat. Then his mouth.

You cried out when his tongue dragged over your folds—wet, eager, messy. He groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your ass, spreading you open wider so he could fuck you with his tongue until your legs buckled.

“Still so fucking tight,” he muttered between licks. “So perfect.”

“Chan—please—” Your voice cracked. “I need it, I need it—”

He stood behind you again, and you heard the rustle of his jeans, the soft slap of skin as he stroked himself.

You turned your head, panting. “I want it. I want you. I can take it, please—”

“You better hold on,” he said, voice dark. “Because I’m not stopping once I start.”

You nodded, desperate.

Then he lined up—and slid in.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel. It was perfect.

Thick, deep, stretching you so full so fast your knees almost gave out. You choked on a gasp, both hands flying to the padded wall, trying to steady yourself as he bottomed out with a low growl.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel that?”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—fuck, yes—”

He pulled back and slammed into you again—harder this time—and your moan echoed off the walls.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he said through gritted teeth. “Walking around all innocent. Pretending you don’t know what you do to me.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” you sobbed.

“Bullshit.”

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked into you—slow, deep thrusts that dragged along every nerve ending you had. He filled you so completely you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could only feel.

“I should’ve made you beg earlier,” he groaned. “The way you sound when you’re desperate? Fucking unreal.”

You clenched around him—tight, pulsing—and he hissed, slamming into you harder.

“Say it again.”

“Please,” you cried. “Please, Chan, don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Let me ruin you.”

And he did.

He fucked you deep and filthy, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs, hands everywhere—your waist, your hair, your throat. His mouth found your shoulder, biting down as you started to come again, your body seizing around him like it couldn’t stand the pleasure anymore.

“Fuck, that’s it, come for me—so fucking tight—shit—”

You screamed into the wall as you shattered around him, sobbing his name, body shaking like it couldn’t hold the heat anymore.

And he followed—hard.

He buried himself to the hilt and groaned deep in your ear as he came inside you, thick and hot, his hips jerking with every pulse.

You collapsed against the booth wall, legs trembling, breath ragged.

Chan stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against the back of your neck, both of you panting.

Then he pulled out slowly—gently—and turned you around to catch you before you fell.

His arms wrapped around you.

And for a long, quiet second, he just held you. Pressed his lips to your forehead. Let your heart slow against his.

“You’re never gonna look at this booth the same way again,” he whispered.

Your legs were jelly. Your mind was somewhere far away. Every inch of your body throbbed with the echo of what just happened.

Chan held you up effortlessly, arms wrapped around you like he didn’t trust your knees to hold. He kissed your temple, slow and warm, and whispered, “I’ve got you.”

He reached behind you, tugging his shirt off in one fluid motion, then gently helped you step out of your rumpled clothes. When he slid his shirt over your head, you leaned into his chest, still trying to catch your breath, the scent of him wrapping around you like another blanket.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, cheek pressed against his skin. “No. Just… never felt like that before.”

He hummed, proud and gentle all at once. “Good. You shouldn’t have to settle for anything less than that.”

He helped you sit on the little bench in the corner of the booth, kneeling in front of you like earlier—except now he wasn’t teasing. He was checking. Fixing you.

You watched him silently as he used a soft wipe to clean you between the legs, careful and slow even though you winced from the tenderness. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

You shook your head again. “You took care of me.”

He glanced up at that. Smiled softly. “Yeah. I’ll always do that.”

You believed him.

He stood and tugged his pants up, then crouched to help you dress again too—every zipper, every button, like it was part of some sacred ritual.

After you were both dressed again, he pulled you into his lap, back against the booth wall, arms wrapped tight around you. His chin rested on your shoulder.

For a while, you just sat there. Let the silence hold you.

“Are you gonna regret this?” you asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper.

His answer came instantly. “No.”

You turned your head to look at him, heart pounding.

“I should,” he added, brushing his nose against your cheek. “But I don’t. Not even a little.”

You bit your lip. “So what now?”

He gave a crooked little smile. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to pretend nothing happened.”

You blinked.

“In front of the others,” he clarified, brushing a thumb across your lower lip. “In public. Around Jeongin. Especially around Jeongin.”

Your laugh came out small and breathy. “And in private?”

“In private,” he murmured, voice dipping low, “I’ll keep teaching you.”

You shivered.

He kissed your jaw, soft and slow. “You’ll keep begging.”

Another kiss. “And I’ll keep wrecking you.”

You moaned quietly, already aching again.

“But for now,” he said, tightening his arms around you, “you’re gonna let me hold you.”

You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his chest.

Outside the booth, the studio lights hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a phone buzzed. But in here—in Chan’s arms—it felt like time had stopped. Like something real had started.

Maybe it was the beginning of a mistake.

Maybe it was the best secret you’d ever keep.

But for now, it was just the two of you.

And neither of you planned to stop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Hi guys! Sorry I disappeared for a few days, a lot was happening irl but i am back though! I want to expand the “unknown number” fic into an ot8 series (if you haven’t read it yet then check my masterlist under bang chan) please let me know what you think, its gonna be the same concept but random af story lines 🤭

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